


A Day Without Sunshine

by eyeus



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Flowers, Language of Flowers, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Let Faramir have the shop,” Boromir argues. “He knows flowers. He knows the business. And he loves what he does, something <i>you</i> stopped doing since mom died.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for the flower shop and the floor above it drawn from Natsuyuki Rendezvous, seen **[here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/NRscreen1.jpg~original)** and **[here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/NRscreen2.jpg~original)**. Title from Alan Jackson's _That's What I'd Be Like Without You_.

~

_Sunlight._

Faramir remembers it, golden, spilling through their round pothole of a window. Recalls the way it lights the dust motes floating in the air, when his mother sits him and Boromir down in the kitchen, to give them their first budding plants each. Both pots of soil house a plant too young to have flowered fully yet, much like themselves.

“What _are_ these, mama?” Faramir asks, fascinated by the bright golden petals arranged around broad, intricate centers. He touches his fingers to one of the petals, gentle.

To his and his mother’s horror, Boromir tries to flick the head of his flower off, murmuring the common children’s chant, “Mama had a baby and its head popped off.”

“ _Boromir_ ,” their mother says, sounding scandalized. “That is _not a dandelion_.” When Boromir springs back a safe distance, properly reprimanded, she laughs and pulls him in close again. “These are sunflowers, from my own garden out back. And now they’re yours.”

She shows them how to water their flowering plants. How to check the soil to see that they haven’t drowned their flowers. 

Boromir drowns his anyway, by accident; his theory is that overzealous watering will lead to overzealous growing, which proves otherwise at the test. Faramir’s, on the other hand, flourishes wonderfully, from his careful watering and love. 

He talks to it quietly, like it’s a person, the way he’s seen his mother do. Sings to it when he’s sure Boromir isn’t looking, and hums at it when Boromir _is_. As a result, the sunflower unfurls into a bright, climbing thing, arcing toward the sun from its pot on the windowsill. Shoots up and up until it seems the very paragon of a sunflower, its leaves lush and green, like the ones emblazoned on their parents’ flower shop aprons. 

Faramir’s always loved those aprons, home-crafted from soft, forest green cloth, each with a smiling sunflower embroidered across the front. Loves pressing his little fingers into each of the seven stars clustered around the sunflowers, before tracing the words beneath, the name of their parents’ shop: _Starlight, Starbright_. 

Eventually, Faramir’s sunflower grows so tall that he has to lash it to a small pole to keep it upright. 

“Oh, Faramir,” his mother says, surprised. “You’ve grown your own special jewel.”

“What about you, mama? Are yours the ones in the garden?” Faramir asks, as he climbs into her lap.

She holds out her other arm, to beckon Boromir over. Boromir hesitates, before setting down his red fire truck and wiggling into her lap beside Faramir, and she closes her arm around him, as if to let them both know they’ll always have a place with her. “I have them right here,” she says, smiling. “You are both my little jewels.” She ruffles their hair, fond. “Shining together.” After a thoughtful pause, she adds, “Do you know what else jewels do?”

“Get stolen?” Boromir quips. Faramir giggles, soft; he knows Boromir’s gotten that from all the superhero cartoons they’ve been watching.

“When jewels of different kinds are set beside each other, they work together to shine all the brighter.”

“Oh,” says Boromir, very quiet. He takes Faramir’s small hands in his, thoughtful. “I see.”

Faramir nods as if he understands this perfect pearl of wisdom, because Boromir will explain anything he doesn’t understand later—and Boromir _does_ , like always, as they sway to and fro on their tree swing outside. The seat’s too small to fit them both side-by-side, so Boromir folds Faramir into his arms and lap, snug. Keeps him from falling off, as he shares the meaning of their mother’s words.

That afternoon is the last, brightest, memory he has of their mother. 

What follows is a series of white-lit hospital halls, dim examination rooms and the sharp smell of antiseptic. A sense of _otherness_ that’s all wrong. He hears about how his mother misses something called the Seaside. How her health withers in the City, as the doctors say. There are fancier words and more elaborate explanations, but all Faramir knows is that she’s slipping further and further away each day. 

“Faramir,” he remembers his mother whispering one evening, after she’s spoken to Boromir and their father. She cradles his cheek, her palm dry and cool. “You have a real green thumb, just like me. Don’t waste your talent.” Her smile is bright, made all the lovelier still from the autumn light spilling in through the window. They’re at her new room at the hospice—her last room. She must be tired, because she sleeps for a long time after that.

“Boromir?” Faramir asks later, when they’re on their way home. He doesn’t dare talk to their father, whose expression is dull and ashen. “What's a green thumb?”

Boromir turns a watery smile upon him. “It’s what you have when you’re good at growing things.”

“Oh,” says Faramir. He holds his hands at eye level and inspects them carefully. “Mama says I have one, but my thumbs haven’t turned green yet.”

Boromir manages a choked laugh, even as tears stream down his face. “Oh, Faramir.” He hugs Faramir, hard. Holds his hand, too tight. They stay like that for the rest of the drive home, Boromir’s fingers clenched around his, trembling.

It’s only later, far from the presence of their father, that Boromir explains what’s happened to their mother, because Faramir won’t stop pestering him with _When will mama come home?_ And _When will mama wake up?_ That, and there’s no one else _to_ ask. 

“Remember how you tried to rescue my sunflower?” Boromir says, after some thought. “The one I couldn’t make grow like yours did?”

Faramir frowns; he had carefully watered Boromir’s too, talked to it for longer, and sung happy songs at it, to make it grow like his own had. Had placed them beside each other in the end, their terracotta pots squeezed together on the windowsill, hoping the influence of the healthy sunflower would rub off on the other. It had remained a wilted, droopy thing, a testament to Boromir’s lack of expertise with growing plants. “Yes.”

“Well, the doctors tried to help mama like you tried to help the flower, but no matter what they tried, it didn’t quite work.”

“Oh,” says Faramir, before his lip starts to tremble, because this analogy, more than anything, has just driven home what has happened to his mother, faster than the grown-up words their father flung at him, or the fancy phrases the doctors used. “Does that…does that mean mama isn’t waking up?”

When Boromir finally nods, Faramir flings himself into Boromir’s arms and sobs, because he’s finally realized that the hope he’s held to have their days of sunlight again is gone. 

That the darkness is here to stay.

~

“Do you know where the name of our flower shop comes from?” Boromir had asked once, before their family was sundered by loss. They’re lying on a red-checkered picnic blanket on a small, sloping hill outside their house, arms folded over bellies and legs crossed as they gaze into the night sky.

Faramir purses his lips in thought, and wiggles his toes in the soft grass. “From the poem!” he says. “The one that goes _Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight—_ ”

Boromir huffs in the way he does when he’s trying to sound grown-up. “Yes, yes. But mama also told me that she and papa named the shop for the stars they used to watch at night. On this very hill.”

“Oh.” Faramir shuffles closer to Boromir, cuddling into his side against the chill of the night air. Giggles as Boromir throws an arm over him, lazy, to stop him from squirming. “I wish we could take the stars with us, when we go inside,” he says with a sigh.

Boromir says nothing, only hums and draws Faramir closer.

Later, after their mother passes, when it seems like their whole world has dimmed, and even the grandeur of the night sky is not enough to brighten it again, Boromir brings the sky into their room. Cannibalizes parts from a Glo-In-The-Dark Space Kit he received for Christmas in years past, adhering sticky-tacked stars to what parts of the ceiling he can by jumping on the bed and slapping them on.

Boromir manages a moon and several clusters of stars before the bed pops a spring and he slams into the bed face-first. 

Instead of crying, though, Boromir looks up and grins through his split lip and bloody nose. “Now we can have the stars with us, even when we’re inside!” he announces.

Faramir plasters a Scooby-Doo band-aid to the scrape on Boromir’s cheek. Touches his lips to the band-aid to kiss the hurt away, like Boromir’s done for his skinned knees, and throws his arms around his brother’s waist, squeezing hard to show his thanks.

In time, he’ll remember it as the first instance Boromir would hang the moon and the stars for him. 

It won’t be the last.

~

Boromir becomes a permanent fixture in Faramir’s life after their mother’s passing, especially when their father starts spending longer and longer hours at _Starlight, Starbright_.

Even when he is home, he slinks away to his study, emerging only to take the occasional meal. He has little to say to Faramir besides words of reprimand, like _Boromir would’ve remembered to be quiet_ , coupled with judging stares that say _Your brother could have done better, more_ and _faster_.

So Boromir takes it upon himself to make breakfast and dinner for them. Packs them grape-jelly and peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, cutting them into triangles the way Faramir likes. Walks Faramir to and from school, and makes sure to hug Faramir when he cries for mama in his sleep, staying to let Faramir curl into him in bed even after his tears have dried.

He still humors Faramir when he checks each morning to see if his thumbs have turned green; Faramir believes that if their mother said he had green thumbs, surely he must develop them sometime. 

“They’ll come,” Boromir reassures him, when Faramir looks up at him, expression watery and forlorn at the sight of his small, pale hands. “In time.”

It’s on the one night, when Boromir finds his brother whimpering in his sleep and trembling beneath the covers, that he takes a bright green Mr. Sketch marker and colors Faramir’s thumbs green. Then he pushes into the space behind Faramir and envelopes his brother in his arms. Faramir’s body moves of its own accord to make room for him, used to the long-familiar and comforting motion.

When Faramir wakes up, he’s excited beyond belief, smearing his inky hands all over his brother. “Look, Boromir! I have _real_ green thumbs now!” he exclaims, holding out his hands and showing off his thumbs like a badge of honor. They smell suspiciously like mint, but Faramir decides that maybe that’s how new green thumbs are supposed to smell—minty fresh.

And while most brothers five years the elder might say, “That’s stupid”, or “Get _off_ me, squirt”, Boromir beams and kisses him on the brow. Lets Faramir snuggle into him. “That’s great,” Boromir says softly, proud. “It means you’re officially real good at growing things now.” 

This discovery isn’t enough to dull the knife edge of pain from their mother’s loss, but Boromir’s pride in him _because_ of it stirs something in Faramir’s heart. He’s never known life without Boromir, and maybe—just maybe—this flushing of his cheeks, this rapid hammer of his heart against his ribcage, is an extension of the nameless feeling he’s harbored for his brother.

He figures out Boromir’s deception much later, but by then it’s too late; Faramir’s already realized what that nameless feeling is. That he’s stupidly, hopelessly in love with his brother, and the trick with the felt marker only makes him more so. 

As stupidly in love as he is, though, Faramir’s no fool, and he buries this new feeling deep and dark within himself. He can’t bear for Boromir to stop his hugs and kisses and cuddles. Can’t bear for Boromir to look at him with horror dawning in his eyes, as he says, _I love you too, Faramir_.

 _But not like_ that.

~

Everything changes in Faramir’s world one afternoon; tilts it completely on its axis, on a day that’s grey and overcast but otherwise unremarkable.

Faramir’s waiting alone at the bus stop to go home, since Boromir has some library project today and has to catch up with him later. He’s holding a little planter of flowers from his teacher, proud of the irises in it that he’s raised from seeds. He plans to give them to Boromir when he gets home, as a surprise, because if anyone is the embodiment of hope, valor, and wisdom, it’s his brother.

“Friggin’ _pansy_ ,” one of the kids waiting at the stop spits at Faramir, jostling him by the shoulder on his way past. The boy and his ragtag cluster of friends are in the ninth grade, and Faramir’s heard they’re the toughest kids in the school, running a small racketeering operation and filching kids’ money at lunchtime. 

It’s clear that their reputation precedes them, because Faramir spots the other kids cringing away, with no one rising to his defense.

The bullies surround Faramir, kicking dirt at his shoes even as he backpedals and tries to hide behind a tree. Laugh, cruel, as Faramir stumbles over its roots instead, barely managing to save the planter. 

“Bet you he plays with dolls and wears girls’ clothes at home,” another of the bullies snickers. “Should we check if he’s wearing them _now_?”

“He doesn’t,” says a new voice. “And he isn’t. But even if he was, it wouldn’t matter.” 

Faramir could _cry_ in relief, because when he looks up, he sees his brother, taller and stronger than him in every way—then he remembers to be afraid, because Boromir is still a year younger and a head shorter than these bullies, and there are _three_ of them. 

The tallest of them, with a mop of red hair and a blaze of freckles across his face, steps forward, cracking his knuckles. “Yeah? Who’s this little wimpling to you?”

“He’s my brother,” Boromir growls in warning, herding Faramir behind him. Faramir can feel his brother bristling with anger from the fingers pressed into his shoulder, protective. “Don’t call him names.”

“Or what?” Freckle-Face asks. His friends laugh with him, like some kind of twisted, synchronized choir. “You gonna throw little purple flowers at me?” He reaches around Boromir, to smash the planter from Faramir’s hands. It spills across the school’s perfectly manicured lawn, an explosion of soil and purple petals and upturned roots. “ _Oops_.”

For this, Faramir _does_ start to cry. 

Boromir spares a moment to press a crumpled tissue to Faramir’s face and dry his tears, before whirling suddenly and socking Freckle-Face in the jaw. The shocking _crack_ of teeth and bone startles Faramir right out of his misery, and even as the other two goons jump his brother, Boromir holds his own, giving as good as he gets, until the three bullies run away with their clothes torn, their faces and jeans stained with grass and dirt the same. 

“You okay?” asks Boromir, kneeling and folding Faramir into his arms. When Faramir nods, Boromir presses a kiss to his brow, soft and warm and soothing. Faramir has no visible hurts, but his brother’s kiss goes a long way toward healing the hurt in his heart. 

They’ve missed the bus by now, and have to walk a longer distance home, but Faramir first gathers what’s left of the irises from the ground, and presses the twisted stems into Boromir’s hand. “These were for you,” he says. “My teacher said they’re for valour. Bravery,” he explains, when Boromir blinks at him. 

Boromir laughs, and takes Faramir’s hand as they start the trek home by foot. “Never change, Faramir,” he says. “Never change.”

Faramir fishes out the crumpled tissue Boromir gave him and tugs his brother’s hand to pull him closer, to wipe away the blood from Boromir’s nose and mouth. Thinks to press a kiss to Boromir’s cheek, but Boromir turns just then, to say something, and his lips end up brushing against Boromir’s.

“Oh,” says Boromir, quiet. “Faramir, is this…? I mean, are you sure.” There’s no oscillation between _This isn’t right_ or _Brothers don’t do this_ , as if Boromir’s just accepted this for what it is. Like maybe he’s been waiting for this moment too.

Faramir springs back, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. No, it was an accident, forget it, he means to say. “Of course I’m _sure_ , don’t tell me I don’t know what’s in my heart,” he snaps instead, before realizing he’s reversed what he thought and meant to say.

“Oh,” Boromir says again. There’s the longest pause, in which Faramir is terrified he’ll say some iteration of _That’s gross_ or _You’re too young to know what you want_ , but Boromir just smiles and draws Faramir into his arms again. “All right, then.”

And when he kisses back, soft, hesitant, tasting of peppermint gum and copper, Faramir thinks that maybe his love isn’t so hopeless after all.

~

“Tell me a bedtime story about something besides Paddington Bear,” Faramir huffs that night, crossing his arms. “Or Huggly the Monster. You’ve read each book like _ten times over_.”

“All right, all _right_ ,” Boromir laughs. He nudges Faramir aside in the bed, and Faramir wiggles to the edge to make room for him. They’re starting to grow too big to fit in the same bed, and while he’d sit in Boromir’s lap instead, they couldn’t look at the pictures together as comfortably. “I’ve got one tonight from the library.” 

He thumbs open a book on pirates, and Faramir listens raptly, living the life of a swashbuckling treasure hunter with a peg leg, then a lowly deck scrubber with big dreams, each of the stories brighter, richer, more vivid in Boromir’s telling. And each night after that, they live even wilder, different lives, of vengeful ghosts and daring knights, of gods who wield the power of a storm and their wayward brothers.

It’s only a matter of time before Boromir gets his hands on a copy of the fantasy series their parents named them from.

“Look!” Boromir says one night, with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, as he holds up a thick volume, its pages crinkled and yellowed with age. “I finally found it!” The book releases a plume of dust, giving off a musty, old-book smell as Boromir leafs through the first few pages.

Faramir squints at the title and frowns. “ _The Lord of the Rings?_ ” He’s not sure how good it can be, considering how huge the book is. It looks like a grown-up book—dry and difficult to read.

But Boromir makes it sound _amazing_ , sharing stories of the great battles, and snippets of the main characters’ journeys. Faramir loves the details Boromir adds as he goes, and the sound effects he makes: through Boromir’s re-telling, Legolas the Elf shoots exploding arrows while surfing on the shields of his fallen enemies, Aragorn the Ranger wields a set of dual pistols that go _piu piu_ before scores of Orcs drop dead at his feet, and Gimli the Dwarf splits skulls with his katana-style battle axe.

“Can Gandalf have laser-beam eyes?” Faramir asks, once. Sometimes it seems like the wizard of their company has no special powers at all, having just been ousted by his former friend in spell incantations over a mountain pass. Clearly, this wizard is no wizard of words.

Boromir hums thoughtfully. “He can have laser-beam eyes. Or if you want, he can have a laser-beam _staff_.”

“Ooh, _yes_ ,” says Faramir, his eyes growing wide, delighted at how Gandalf goes on to best an ancient Balrog by aiming his laser-beam staff at its eyes; he blinds it enough to make it lose its balance and fall off a bridge to its death. 

Faramir thinks Gandalf must level up quite nicely after defeating the Balrog, as he gets more spells in his repertoire and a new set of armour, though he’ll probably need more kills before he can upgrade his staff. Or before Boromir will upgrade it in his stories, anyway.

Boromir does the best Dwarf voices (they sound like Scottish people) and the funniest Elf voices (where he pitches his voice high like a girl), even if Faramir thinks his Hobbit voices sound too much like himself. Voices aside, however, he reads Faramir the most awesome battle scenes, like how some evil wizard attacks a fortress where all these people were hiding. Or how a bunch of Orcs attacked a city and Gandalf, the totally badass wizard, helps the whole city survive. 

“With his laser-beam staff, of course,” says Boromir, with a sanctimonious little nod. Trolls are especially susceptible to the staff, turning into stone when Gandalf aims his all-powerful light at them. 

He almost never reads the stories about their namesakes though, which Faramir finds immensely curious. “What happened to Boromir?” Faramir asks. “Wasn’t he part of that Fellowship group?”

Boromir closes the book he’s reading to Faramir, which is suspicious enough in itself. “He wasn’t—he didn’t—” Boromir tries, before he sighs. “He returned to his city,” Boromir says finally, “and reunited with his brother. They both became the king’s closest advisors. Forever and ever. The end.”

“Oh,” says Faramir, yawning as he shuffles deeper into their blanket. “That’s good. I always thought he should see his brother again.” He smiles in the dark when Boromir switches off the lamp and curls in behind him. 

“Yes,” Boromir agrees, though his voice is inexplicably sad. “I always thought he should, too.” 

And though Faramir doesn’t understand _why_ Boromir’s sad, he knows he can chase the sad away, simply by winding his fingers through Boromir’s beneath the blanket and throwing their joined hands over his belly.

So he does.

~

When Faramir finally gets his own library card, he checks the series out of the library, excited that he can finally read it on his own. Checks for discrepancies between the Boromir-version and the real one, disappointed to find in fact, that Gimli’s logically impractical katana-axe doesn’t exist. That Aragorn doesn’t actually wield a set of dual pistols.

He likes Boromir’s version better; Boromir makes _everything_ better, in the way that big brothers do, whether it’s healing hurts, embellishing stories, or making grape jelly sandwiches. 

Faramir trudges his way through the rest of the story, to read about their namesakes; with names like his and his brother’s, they _must_ be heroes in the book, or their parents would’ve named them something normal. 

Like Jason and Jacob. Or if they had to have stuffy names, maybe Stanton and Winston. 

He already knows the Boromir and Faramir of the book were brothers too, but he’s surprised by the similarities between their lives and his. Of how their mother had died when they were young. How the Boromir of the books had raised Faramir after that, not unlike his own brother, and how their father seemingly had little left but contempt for his youngest son. 

Faramir allows himself a chuckle at the description of the two brothers, with their dark hair, so unlike the honeyed hue of his and Boromir’s own, and grey eyes, instead of blue. Regardless, much of their story rings true for Faramir’s own life, and he finds himself empathizing deeply with the brothers of the book.

Finds himself drawn into their story, each tantalizing thread pulling him further into the tapestry of their adventure.

He reads avidly of how the brothers had spent most of their lives fighting a hopeless battle against a dark force. Of how the book-Faramir had had a dream, a hope of something that might save Gondor. And of how Boromir, deeming the journey too perilous for his brother, had left for a hidden valley of the Elves, to puzzle out the riddle they’d been given in their dreams. Tried to bring back the weapon that’d been found, that might finally help them win the war against the enemy. 

Boromir had left, and never come back. He’d died on his quest—died a hero, Faramir thinks—and all his younger brother had gotten in recompense was a dream-like vision of his body, his only keepsake of Boromir his cloven horn.

Faramir stops reading after that, swallowing hard against the lump that’s built up in his throat.

He turns off the light and pads over quietly to his brother’s bed. Slips under the covers and slides his arms around Boromir’s waist. Buries his face into his brother’s neck. 

“Took you long enough—ugh, your nose is _cold_ ,” Boromir gripes, but he turns over and lets Faramir burrow into his arms. “What’s wrong?”

“I read some of the books in that series mom and dad liked so much.” His body language is explanation enough on its own.

Boromir doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, “I guess you found out about the guys we were named after, huh.”

Faramir just nods into Boromir’s chest and tucks his toes under Boromir’s legs. 

“Don’t worry,” says Boromir. “I’m not going to go anywhere.” He ruffles Faramir’s hair, fond. “I won’t leave you behind.” Then, more solemnly, “I won’t leave you, ever.” There’s a weight behind his words, one that makes it seem more than a childish promise whispered under the covers. 

“Good,” says Faramir in a small voice. He curls his arms under Boromir’s shoulders, his legs twining further around Boromir’s. Like he’s a sea barnacle Boromir won’t ever be rid of. 

He doesn’t think he could bear it if his Boromir left and never came back. 

Faramir would go with him, to whatever end. Wouldn’t leave him to die alone on some ill-fated journey.

He finds out later that the Faramir of the books turned out to be a hero of this War of the Ring, but without Boromir, he wonders if his namesake only felt like half a hero. 

If he’d ever felt like a hero at all.

~

By the time they’re both old enough to leave college, their father’s all but run _Starlight, Starbright_ into the ground. He hasn’t had the heart for it after their mother died, and customers are less inclined to buy flowers from a surly, sour-faced man.

Boromir’s not expected to take up the mantle for it; he’s supposed to be an economics major now, having graduated from the local college, but because of the same ‘economy’, he’s had to take a job at one of the construction companies in town for the past few years. Having dabbled in environmental science and horticulture for a year himself, Faramir’s decided it wasn’t for him. What he _has_ decided on, is that he wants to take over the flower shop instead. To breathe the same magic and life and wonder into the shop that he’s sure their mother had brought to it once. 

_No_ , their father had said, when Faramir first pitched him the idea. _Why can’t you be like Boromir, and do something useful with your life?_

And Boromir had fought for him then: _Let Faramir have the shop. He knows flowers. He knows the business. And he loves what he does, something you stopped doing since mom died._

Their father never rose to the bait, only countered Boromir at every turn. _And if the shop fails? What then? Will you carry both Faramir and the shop?_

 _Yes_ , said Boromir. _Because Faramir’s dream is_ mine. 

And their old man had called them foolish, had hemmed and hawed and stiffed them with a huge startup bill, but in the end, before he died, he’d handed it over. 

The shop was in their name. 

“How are we going to pay for all this stuff?” Faramir asks now, gesturing to the pile of bills for seeds, planters, a new display cooler, and ad placements. 

The only good thing about all this is that their parents had bought the place where the shop was located so they didn’t have to pay for a lease. Faramir wishes they’d bought the flat upstairs too, so he and Boromir wouldn’t have to make the three-block trek everyday from the rental basement suite they’ve had to move to, but it’s been stuck in construction limbo for the past two years. Waiting for some restaurant to open.

“Let _me_ worry about that,” says Boromir, with what he thinks is a reassuring smile. He kisses the corner of Faramir’s mouth, gentle. “We’ll be all right.”

The shadows of doubt and worry don’t leave his eyes though, so Faramir tugs him into the back room, onto their soft black couch with the broken spring. Lets Boromir press him into the cushions and kiss him, again and again, before they’re fumbling at belts and buttons and zippers, scrabbling for a vial of oil for the pleasure they’ve come to enjoy. Boromir eases Faramir open with steady fingers, before pushing into him, slow. Works his way up to sharp, brutal thrusts, just the way Faramir likes, until Faramir’s hands are clawed tight into the fabric of the couch. Until he’s biting the cushions to muffle his cries. 

“I wish you could stay,” Faramir whispers, when they’ve finished. He tucks a strand of sweat-slick hair behind Boromir’s ear. Presses the fingers of his other hand into Boromir’s shoulders, as if by pressing hard enough, Faramir can keep him here, bolt him down, shackle Boromir to him so he can’t leave.

“I wish I could too,” says Boromir. He lays his head on Faramir’s shoulder as he catches his breath. Winds his arms around Faramir’s waist, gentle. But the bills won’t pay themselves and food won’t magically appear on their table, and they both know it. So they don’t have long at all before he has to kiss Faramir once, hard, and toss his shirt over his head. “Don’t wait up for me tonight,” he says. 

Sometimes he doesn’t come back from the work sites until after dark, when the dinner Faramir’s made has gone cold. 

“Mmh,” says Faramir, non-committal, straightening Boromir’s shirt and stealing a ghost of a kiss before he leaves.

They both know Faramir will wait up for him anyway.

~

It takes another two years before the shop starts making a steady stream of revenue, enough that Faramir can funnel part of it back into the business, in hardier display coolers, a wider variety of gifts and cards, and his crowning masterpiece, the little greenhouse out back. He grows a supply of their own flowers there, so that they can rely less on the wholesale florist—even sectioned it off into different areas, to simulate various climates, letting him grow some of the more difficult flowers to use for arrangements.

Word of mouth’s gotten the shop farther than most of their flyers and bench ads, and they’ve built up a decent clientele, many of them repeat customers. 

Some are their parents’ old friends, elderly couples who drop by for cards, stuffed animals, knickknacks, and bouquet orders to “support Finny and Denny’s kids”. In truth, it’s probably _because_ of them that Faramir and Boromir managed to keep the shop afloat when they first took it over, and it’s a fact Faramir never forgets, throwing in little extras for them when the shop’s been doing well. 

There’s also a young woman with long blonde hair, who comes in to buy a bouquet of white lilies every other week. An older gentleman, who looks wise beyond his years with his graying beard and cane, often coming in just to enjoy the sight of flowers and sunshine; he frequently leaves with a set of lilacs, accompanied by handmade prints of butterflies and horses. And countless others who stop by for a chat, and leave with miniature cacti or bonsai plants, or, if Faramir can swing it, whole arrangements that he’s just finished.

The only annoying thing about their location is the amount of noise coming from upstairs at all hours, a cacophony of hammering, drilling, and heavy clomping footsteps. Faramir puts up with it anyway, because the shop’s located at a place with lots of foot traffic, with a bus stop just out front.

He’s heard from Boromir that the place upstairs finally got bought out. That it’s slated to become a Greek restaurant when it’s done, and wonders if he can barter for food with their flowers. Adornments for souvlaki, or even spanakopita. Unless the owners decide to cheap out and use those garish plastic flowers that other places resort to.

“Hey, I was thinking—” Faramir tries, after Boromir returns to their little basement suite and finishes scarfing down dinner. He figures he’ll ask Boromir about what else he’s heard on the restaurant. When it might be open. 

But when Boromir gives him a sleepy half-smile, the bags under his eyes too dark and the lines at his forehead too sharp from long hours at the job, Faramir can’t bring himself to say anything else. Just guides him to the bed, opening his arms to hold Boromir and kiss him, nosing _Thank you’_ s and _I love you_ ’s into his neck only after Boromir falls asleep.

~

Faramir manages not to bring up the whole _staying_ thing for another while, before Boromir blows that plan out of the water. Not with a huge, moving gesture, but with small, heartfelt tokens, the same as he’s always done.

It’s when Faramir’s absently humming to himself, clipping thorns from a set of roses that he plans to set in a glass bud vase—a last-minute anniversary order—that the wind chime he’s wound over the door sounds. Like a light jingle of bells and laughter. 

“Faramir.”

The voice snaps him out of his dazed reverie, because this is better than _thinking_ about Boromir, it’s him in the flesh. “Mmhn,” Faramir nods, shifting the rose thorns to one side. It’s so Boromir doesn’t hurt himself when he leans over the counter, into Faramir’s space, for a one-armed hug or a kiss, like he usually does.

Boromir slips two packets across the counter, seeds for stargazer lilies and lavender. “Got you some of these from the hardware store,” he says with a smile. “They had a greenhouse out back.” He’s grown into the habit of dropping off seeds for flowers he finds new or interesting.

“Thanks,” Faramir grins, setting down his scissors. He could use some of these for the arrangements he’s had in mind. 

“And this,” Boromir says, producing a potted maroon geranium from behind his back with a flourish, “is for _you_.” It’s beautiful, with its wide, flat petals, the edges tinged with an ivory-white softness. Faramir hasn’t said so aloud, but he’s always preferred potted plants to cut ones because of how much longer they last. The way they’re more _alive_. And for Boromir to have figured this out…

Faramir swallows hard, around the knot building in his throat.

“I can grow that myself,” Faramir laughs, a little forced, but he drops a peck of a thank-you kiss on Boromir’s cheek, since there’s no one around. “Can you stay?” he asks, before mentally kicking himself. “Just for lunch, I mean.” 

It _isn’t_ what he means, but he can’t help asking, on the off chance that maybe this time, Boromir won’t have to leave him so soon. Won’t have to leave at all. 

“Can’t,” Boromir says, shaking his head. “I’ve got to get back to the site.” He’s working on building a school out in one of the new communities today. Probably snuck by the shop while making a supply run. He covers Faramir’s hand with his and squeezes, his palm warm, with just the right amount of roughness and weight. “One day, though,” he says. Leans over the counter and kisses Faramir on the mouth, softer, sweeter, before he goes. “One day soon.”

“Sure,” Faramir nods, the upturn of his lips frozen somewhere between grimace and smile. “Soon.” 

Like maybe in the next decade. 

Or the one after that.

~

“I’m sorry,” Boromir says, when he’s late swinging by the shop to pick Faramir up for dinner for the umpteenth time. He loops his arms around Faramir, squeezes his waist in apology.

Faramir shrugs. It wouldn’t mean anything, except that today—today was his _birthday_ , and he’d been hoping Boromir would remember. That maybe he’d make his excuses from work, and even come home early to spend it with Faramir. 

And now _this_ , after a bad day of the movers upstairs being especially loud and clunky, lugging boxes and tarp-wrapped furniture into the floor above.

“It’s fine,” Faramir mumbles. He should’ve expected as much anyway.

“It’s not,” Boromir insists. “I wanted to take you out for your birthday tonight. For dinner. For that movie you wanted to see so much.”

“Oh. Rain cheque, maybe?” Faramir murmurs against Boromir’s mouth. Winds arms around his neck, loose, in forgiveness. So Boromir _did_ remember, but everything’s closed now anyway, and they’ve just missed the last round of movie showings at the theatre.

Boromir laughs, a deep, genuine rumble. “Absolutely. I did get you a gift, though.”

When Faramir blinks, Boromir takes advantage of his momentary daze to buss him on the cheek. “A gift? What is it?”

Boromir reaches into his pocket for a small box, square and velvet and black, like the kind people use for jewelry. But there’s no way this is—this couldn’t be—

It’s a key. 

Not ornate, like those brass keys he’s seen for Victorian-era mansions, or even engraved. Just a simple key lying in a felt-lined box that Boromir scrounged from god knows where. It’s possibly the smallest thing Boromir has ever given him; other years, he’s gotten Faramir a water gun, baseball cards, a book he’s wanted forever. And in more recent years, a new trowel, even mini greenhouses for his plants. So Faramir’s not sure what to make of this.

“Oh. A key!” says Faramir, trying to sound enthusiastic. He wonders if he should tell Boromir he’s not a kid anymore. That he doesn’t need a plastic treasure chest full of books and toys unlocked by a mysterious key. But Boromir’s beaming at him so brightly that Faramir can’t bring himself to say the words. “What does it open?” he asks instead.

“It’s a surprise,” Boromir says, pulling out a necktie from his jacket pocket. He ties it around Faramir’s eyes, snug. Hums as he takes Faramir’s hand and guides him outside. 

Faramir’s got the feeling that Boromir’s just leading him around the building to throw him off; even with his eyes covered, he can tell they’ve walked a lopsided figure-eight outside. At some point he’ll have to tell Boromir that his subterfuge needs work, but Faramir suspects that now is not the time.

“Where are we going?” Faramir says, still genuinely curious. A scavenger hunt in the night, perhaps? Is the key a clue to another in a series?

“Mmhn, careful now,” Boromir says. He’s being evasive as hell, but sounds positively _giddy_ as he leads Faramir up a set of stairs. Guides his hand to a keyhole, and after the creak of a door opening, leads him over the threshold, one arm settling cozily above Faramir’s hip. “All right, you can take the blindfold off now,” Boromir says, fumbling at the wall for a switch, before light floods the room, warm and bright and inviting. 

Faramir tugs the necktie from around his eyes, eager. Finds that they’ve walked into a fully furnished little flat, with a kitchen, a cozy couch in front of a television, and a small dining table. There’s a hall too, one that probably leads to a bedroom. 

It’s a moment more before Faramir realizes that it’s _their_ television. _Their_ couch. _Their_ table. Along with the collection of hideous potted shrubs that he’s rescued over the years, sitting on the mantel. The old oil painting of roses their mother did, with the words **♥ home is where the heart is ♥** emblazoned along the edges of the canvas, hanging above the kitchen sink.

“Boromir?” he says in wonder. “Is this what I think it is?” It’s the flat above the flower shop, if he’s got this right. For all of Boromir’s attempts at subterfuge, it isn’t hard to guess where they are; he can even see the bus stop in front of the flower shop when he turns around.

“I bought it, yeah. Fixed the flat up a little,” Boromir says proudly, in the way he means _I fixed it up a lot_. “Got some friends to do the wiring and plumbing. And they helped move all our stuff here.” Most of their belongings had been left in boxes since their last move, anyway.

“Oh,” says Faramir, quiet. And suddenly, all those missed dinners and movie nights start to make sense, because Boromir’s been here, doing all this for him. For _them_.

“I know it’s not much,” Boromir says, seeming to take Faramir’s silence as disappointment, “but it’s ours.” His hand at Faramir’s waist twitches, maybe from nervousness.

“It’s _everything_ ,” Faramir insists, and he’s so happy it hurts, his chest tight with all the love and affection he can’t contain. “It’s amazing, it’s…” He buries his face into Boromir’s shirt, because there’s too much he wants to say but doesn’t know how to. 

Boromir chuckles and leans in, his breath warm in Faramir’s ear. “Now you won’t have to keep your voice down when we— ”

“ _Boromir!_ ” Faramir splutters, heat rushing to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“There’s something else,” Boromir says, quiet, when he’s stopped laughing and Faramir’s stopped blushing. “I wanted to tell you that I—well.”

“What is it?” Faramir asks. He takes Boromir’s hands in his, warming them in the cool night air. 

“I’ve quit the construction company. To work with you. We’ve got enough set aside, and—” Boromir takes a shaky breath. “I can manage our expenses and the day-to-day things. Like run the till and clean, and tidy the shop so you can focus on making the arrangements and growing the flowers. That is, if…if you’ll have me. Will you?” he asks, with a twitch of a smile, hopeful. 

Boromir’s confession makes Faramir ache a little inside, like he’s got to list all the ways he can be useful before Faramir will accept him, because he doesn’t have to; Faramir would want him there even if he didn’t do a thing, because it means Boromir can _stay_. He won’t have to dash off after a secret visit now. Won’t have to leave at all. 

“Of course I’ll have you,” laughs Faramir, but even as Boromir grins wide and genuine, he can’t help the niggling feeling that Boromir’s asking something else, beneath all that.

“Well?” Boromir says, after Faramir’s finished pressing short, happy kisses to his cheeks and mouth. He herds Faramir inside, closes the door, and waggles his eyebrows. “That table and couch and _bed_ aren’t going to christen themselves.” He nuzzles into Faramir’s neck and purrs, “Or the _shower_.”

Faramir laughs, so happy that he could kiss Boromir again and again, so he does just that, and in the privacy of their first real home together, _more_.

~

“Did you get the flowers I left for you by your breakfast?” Faramir asks, as he empties out a bucket of petal clippings he’s saved from the shop. He watches them fall, thoughtful, wondering if he can do something with them. Perhaps preserve them in water, and lay them beneath water gems as a base.

“The daisies?” Boromir nods, beaming. “Yeah, they were pretty.”

Faramir frowns. “Those were windflowers.” He’d left a small cluster of white ones by Boromir’s breakfast, meant to be a symbol of love, because he thought red roses were too overt. Clearly though, overt is what Boromir needs.

“Sorry, windflowers,” Boromir says, sheepish. He winds his arms around Faramir’s waist from behind, letting his head rest against Faramir’s shoulder in apology.

With a sigh, Faramir turns into his embrace. Smiles in spite of himself, at the way the roughness of Boromir’s stubble tickles his shoulder. As long as Boromir likes the flowers, he doesn’t have to know the meaning of them, Faramir supposes. 

When Boromir goes downstairs to get the shop ready, Faramir heads to the greenhouse, inspecting the flowers in the corner he’s been cultivating for a special arrangement. There are the few petite red roses he’s been saving for the centerpiece, a cluster of white primrose flowers as the border, and two pots of salvia that he plans to use to crown the arrangement as a whole.

He can’t match Boromir’s birthday gift to him from a month ago, but this is his way of saying _Thank you_ and _I love you_ in the way Faramir knows how. 

He starts the arrangement off by dropping a collection of dark blue water gems, the color of Boromir’s eyes, into the bottom of a crystal vase. A quick glance through the glass door tells him that his brother’s got being the front face of the shop down pat, leaving Faramir more time to focus on his greenhouse plants. Faramir hums, content to continue styling and shaping the flowers for the arrangement, making sure to complement the pattern of leaves and vines on the vase’s frosted surface.

 _We’ll go through the flowers together_ , Faramir decides, smiling to himself. He’ll explain the meaning of each one present in the arrangement when he presents it to Boromir. There’s the added bonus that it’ll familiarize Boromir with the flowers they sell, because his brother still occasionally tries to sell carnations to customers asking for roses, by accident.

He sets the finished arrangement at the back of their floral display cooler when Boromir’s back is turned, hiding it behind some tall, fluted rose vases. 

“Faramir? Everything all right?”

Faramir startles, closing the door to the display a little too loudly, rattling the front-most vases. “More than all right,” he says, turning, trying to smile disarmingly.

“Oh, good,” says Boromir. He brushes a wisp of a kiss against Faramir’s cheek. Faramir nudges Boromir’s hip in retaliation, fond.

“ _Well_ ,” Boromir grins, “if you have that much energy to be physical, give me a hand with arranging the front of the shop.” They need to fill the spaces where bouquets and arrangements have been bought with new ones. To Faramir’s relief, Boromir doesn’t turn to the cooler display to the side; nor does he see the arrangement Faramir has just set in there. 

“If I help, will there be time to get more physical later?” Faramir asks, innocent. 

Boromir huffs a laugh this time, and ruffles Faramir’s hair. “Maybe.”

~

“So?” Faramir asks, as they get ready to close the shop that evening. “Where do you want to go for your birthday?”

It’s been a good day, the two of them having sold several major arrangements and a couple of the smaller rosebuds in fishbowl vases. 

Boromir shrugs, like he’s about to say _Anywhere’s fine_ , so Faramir squeezes him around the waist and adds, “It’s your birthday, you _have_ to choose.”

“Fine,” Boromir laughs, giving in. “How about the local burger joint?” 

Faramir thinks of the juicy, greasy burgers at Sam’s Burger House, and their thick ice cream-based shakes. The food’s good, but it’s not exactly birthday fare. “It’s all right if you want to eat something else, you know,” he says. “We…we can afford it, can’t we?”

Boromir gestures with his hands in the air in front of him. “It’s not about the money. It’s…”

 _Oh_ , Faramir realizes. He curls gentle fingers around Boromir’s. “It’s the memories, isn’t it?” 

Sam’s isn’t fancy, and doesn’t have a themed décor; it doesn’t even have the trappings of a proper diner, with its tangerine-red walls, vintage ceiling lamps and milk-white chairs arranged around yellow tables in little honeycomb clusters. In fact, the whole place looks like it’s been furnished with mismatched pieces and paint swiped from someone’s garage sale. 

But it’s comfort and warmth and good food, a place they used to go for celebratory dinners, when their parents were still alive. Back when there _were_ still things to celebrate as a family.

Boromir’s fingers close around Faramir’s as he nods. “The memories.”

They end up filling up on strawberry-peach milkshakes and the House Special burgers, buns stuffed with onions, beef patties, cheddar cheese, and a fried egg each. Faramir lets his toes nudge against Boromir’s under the table as they eat, playful. Boromir leans in and knocks their knees together from across the cramped table, grinning as he does so, his mouth full of burger. 

“Ugh, I didn’t want to see your food,” Faramir says, lip curling as he tries to shield his eyes.

“That’s too bad. I guess if you wanted _gourmet_ seafood, you should’ve gotten me the salmon burger,” Boromir replies, without missing a beat. 

Faramir groans at the pun, but laughs anyway. Stays in this giddy mood the whole way home. 

There’s a full moon overhead, and its lovely, rippling reflection on the river they’re driving along, but Faramir just looks at Boromir while he drives. Watches the way the moonlight makes Boromir’s hair glow like the fireflies they’d used to chase on summer nights. It makes Boromir look so much younger than he is, before he had to shoulder the burden of looking after his kid brother, holding a job, and making sure they had enough to make ends meet even when the shop wasn’t doing well in their early years.

“Boromir,” he says, quiet. Lays his hand, gentle, on top of his brother’s on the stick shift.

“What is it?” asks Boromir. They’ve stopped now, Boromir finished with easing the truck into its space behind the shop. Faramir can’t remember life without this old Chevy, solid and dependable with its sturdy, sky-blue frame. Comforting, with its soft, worn-out seats.

“I,” Faramir tries. He doesn’t think ‘butterflies in the stomach’ is enough to describe this feeling, this weird nervousness; it’s more akin to butterflies struggling to free themselves from their cocoons, a useless beat of wings against an ironclad barrier. The feeling fills the whole of his chest, an aching kind of fullness that’s close to overflowing, and he needs to say it, needs to tell Boromir how much he—

Boromir nods encouragingly, but when no words are forthcoming, he cups the back of Faramir’s neck with his palm. Leans in to press a soft, off-center kiss to his mouth. 

Faramir kisses back harder, hungrier, grateful for this out that Boromir’s given him, because it’s easier to show how he feels this way, this raw, physical manner. It’s easier not to have to say the words, to find the ways to tell Boromir how much he means to Faramir, right now. Even if he knows it’s going to come back and bite him in the ass later. That _easier_ isn’t the way to do things. 

He’s too preoccupied with slipping his hands under Boromir’s shirt, to trace the muscles of his stomach, his chest. To rake nails along Boromir’s back, searching for warmth and skin and heat. His fingers slide down to the waist of Boromir’s pants, fumbling at the belt buckle, tugging at the zipper—

“Faramir,” Boromir gasps between bruisingly hard kisses, “get—get inside the flat. We are _not_ doing this in the back of the truck again.”

Faramir’s fingers give pause in their frantic work, a vague part of him recalling how his backside had ached for _days_ when Boromir last took him in the back of the truck. It’s not an experiment he wants to repeat. “Inside,” he nods. “ _Hurry_.”

Boromir leads him up the stairs, fumbling the key into the lock as Faramir kisses his neck, his jaw, his mouth, hot and filthy kisses that leave Boromir breathless, even as he tries to return them with those of his own. “Faramir,” he groans, as the door falls inward.

They shed their clothes in a wild trail of shoes, socks, jeans and shirts that leads to the bedroom, and Boromir presses him into the sheets, kissing Faramir as if he’s trying to reach every part of him at once, hard and hot and hungry. 

“More,” begs Faramir, looping his arms around Boromir’s neck. He grinds his half-hard cock against the front of Boromir’s boxers, pleased to find Boromir’s answering hardness against his own. 

Boromir leans in for another bruising kiss, tasting like the sweet tartness of strawberries, his hands clawed tight around Faramir’s shoulders. Bullies Faramir’s knees apart with his own, to settle more firmly against him, and presses his burgeoning erection hard against Faramir’s. The friction from his grinding slide is so _good_ , but there’s too much in the way, too much fabric between him and Boromir. 

“Off—too much—just you—” Faramir manages, and somehow Boromir deciphers his broken panting correctly, or he’s had the same thought, because he shucks his own boxers off. Mouths teasingly at Faramir’s cock through the thin cotton of his before urging his hips up and out to slide them off. 

The moment he’s tugged Faramir’s boxers off and flung them to the floor, Boromir’s on him again, hands hooked over the jut of his hips as he presses kisses to Faramir’s thighs and knees. He hikes himself higher just for a moment to nose at Faramir’s navel, before leaning in and blowing a noisy raspberry, teasing, like he did when Faramir was little.

“ _Boromir_ ,” Faramir groans through a restrained giggle. “I’m not—I’m not a kid anymore, cut that out. That’s for _babies_.”

“I’ll stop doing it when you stop giggling like a schoolgirl,” Boromir laughs, and Faramir barely manages to bite down on a moan, when Boromir kisses the tip of his cock. 

“More, like that,” Faramir says, shifting his hips upward, hopeful. 

Boromir obliges, with feather-light touches of lips to the head, the side of Faramir’s cock, then broad, pleasurable licks, laving his tongue from base to tip. He touches his tongue to the slit, grinning at Faramir’s low moan. Considers it permission to take Faramir’s cock between his lips, and close his mouth over it entirely, his hands pinning Faramir to the bed by the hips and keeping him steady, even as Faramir bucks and arches against the bed.

“Good, like that— _yes_ ,” Faramir says, panting, and he mashes a hand into his brother’s hair, relishing the softness that slides through the spaces between his fingers. 

Then Boromir _hums_ with his mouth around Faramir, and Faramir nearly hurts himself arching off the bed, but for Boromir’s hands pinning him down. He still manages to bring one hip up, but it’s because Boromir’s let go of one hip, to—to—

“ _Ah_ ,” is all Faramir can say, even though he means, _That hurts_ , and _Did you even use lube_ , because Boromir’s pressed a finger, no, _two_ inside him, stroking, searching for his prostate. “Boro—Boromir, please, ah—”

“Easy, Faramir,” Boromir says. He’s let his mouth slip off Faramir’s cock, to lay a trail of small, comforting kisses to his belly. Strokes Faramir’s prick with his other hand to distract him from the pain. “Better now?”

It _is_ , and Faramir nods. He’s just gotten comfortable with the fingers pressed deep inside him, when Boromir crooks them suddenly, and _oh_ , he’s found it, that spot that makes Faramir see white, and Faramir pants through the burn of it, the pleasure, bucking his hips into Boromir’s hand to get him to press there again. 

He whines in protest, when instead of _more_ and _again_ , Boromir withdraws his fingers and swirls them in the precome that’s gathered on Faramir’s stomach. Frowns, as if it’s not enough to ease the way, and reaches for the bottle of lube they keep in Boromir’s night table, uncapping it to pour it into his palm.

“Inside, want you—more,” begs Faramir. He wonders if he’d be embarrassed if he could see himself, rutting against Boromir’s hip like this, but right now, all he wants is Boromir on him, _in_ him, filling the very space around him. 

What he wants, Boromir gives, because there’s suddenly the press of heated flesh against the pucker of his hole. And _thank goodness_ Boromir thought to add lube, because when he slides in, Faramir doesn’t have to tell him _wait_ or _stop_ because the pressure is slow and easy, giving him time to adjust. 

“Faramir?” Boromir asks, when their hips are flush. He cradles Faramir’s cheek with a roughened palm. “Are you all right?’

Faramir closes his hand over Boromir’s. “All right,” he assures. Breathes in once, then twice, before breaking off into pleasured gasps as Boromir moves inside him, pressing upward and in. He twines his legs over Boromir’s back, urging him on with his ankles. Begs for _harder_ and _more_ , rewarding each of his brother’s pleasing thrusts with a breathy gasp, a strangled cry. 

As if heartened by Faramir’s cries, Boromir hikes one of Faramir’s legs over his shoulder, pinning the other to the bed with his own leg, and presses in deep again.

The new angle has Faramir sinking teeth into the pillow, trying to muffle his cries, because Boromir’s hitting him right bloody _there_ and Faramir’s caught between gasping in pleasure and whimpering at the sharp, near-painful impact. Boromir must notice something, in the furrow in his brow, or the quality of the sounds Faramir’s making, because he eases the power of his thrusts back just a touch, but then it’s not enough anymore, and Faramir scowls, digging his nails into Boromir’s forearms, harsh.

“Harder,” Faramir pleads. “ _Deeper_.” He’d take the near-painful digs to not-enough any day.

In response, Boromir shoves a pillow under Faramir’s hips. Hitches Faramir’s other leg over his shoulder, until Faramir’s bent nearly in half, knees pressed to shoulders as he clutches the sheets hard, crying out between rough, greedy kisses at the depth of each thrust.

“Please, Boromir—” Faramir whimpers, as Boromir pounds him into the mattress, his fingers trailing intermittently over Faramir’s cock, teasing. He’s unsure of whether he wants _more_ or _harder_ or neither, because it’s too much and just right at once; it’s Boromir occupying every part of him like he’s wanted, with tongue and fingers and prick, and Faramir can’t think, can’t breathe, just knows to moan at every frisson of pleasure sparking through his body.

When his legs threaten to slip from Boromir’s shoulders, Boromir locks them in place, gripping Faramir’s ankles, hard. Surges forward for a perfect, brutal thrust that has Faramir howling, helpless.

“Boromir, I—I’m—” Faramir gasps. He’s close, he can feel it, the familiar burn building in the base of his spine, like a wave, ready to crest.

“Not yet,” Boromir growls. “Not _yet_ , we’re almost—we’re almost there.” He lets Faramir’s legs slide down to his waist. Wraps his palm around Faramir’s cock just in time for a long, steady stroke, before Faramir spills, shaking and panting, onto his own belly. Pushes in deep, then deeper, filling Faramir a heartbeat later. 

They still haven’t managed to come together in all this time, but Faramir supposes it’s one of those things he can deal with, before the thought of how _good_ birthday sex can be overwhelms every other thought in his mind.

Faramir lets Boromir rest his head on his shoulder for a few breaths, and ends up counting his respirations for a full minute. Slides fingers through Boromir’s hair, gentle, for another. After three whole minutes pass this way, he nudges his hips into Boromir’s, and says, “Again?”

“You greedy little…” Boromir laughs, fond, before pressing Faramir into the sheets again, sinking teeth into his neck to leave a livid, cherry-bright bruise.

They go a second round, a third, then finally a fourth, each time slower than the last, until it’s less like raw, physical fucking and more the easy lovemaking they’ve grown used to in the mornings. Until Faramir can’t move anymore, can’t come anymore, his cock twitching helplessly against his belly. 

“Boromir, I can’t—no more, _please_ ,” Faramir begs. He’s not sure how he ever thought he could outlast Boromir in a match of stamina or endurance, since every time they manage a minor marathon like this, he never has. Not that he’s complaining. “ _Boromir_ —”

“Finally,” Boromir says, huffing a laugh. And with one brutal, aimed thrust, he pushes into Faramir and spends, hot and deep and wet, pressing his tongue deep inside Faramir’s mouth and wringing the air from his lungs with a hard and hungry kiss. 

Holds Faramir through his trembling and presses kisses to his brow, his cheeks, and mouth as they lie together, catching their breath.

“We should shower,” Boromir says at last, into the dark of their room. He turns and finds Faramir’s mouth, touching his tongue to Faramir’s lips until he yields and lets Boromir in. “Or at least change the sheets.” Their sheets are damp, and will be cold later; there’s definitely logic to this suggestion.

“Mmhn,” Faramir mumbles. “I don’t want to do either.” He rolls over and peels the innermost blanket off, kicking it to the floor. “There, problem solved.” Nudges his way back into Boromir’s arms. 

“That's the _laziest_ solution I’ve ever seen,” Boromir says. He squeezes Faramir’s shoulder, reproachful. “Even lazier than the time you wanted to do it in the shower just so we wouldn’t have to clean.”

Faramir shrugs, and curls deeper into his brother’s embrace, where it’s warm and snug and the scent of their vanilla-almond soap still lingers. 

Sensing that their conversation’s over, Boromir winds his arms lower, around Faramir’s waist. Slots his hips and knees perfectly in place behind Faramir. “I love you,” he says softly, kissing the space beneath Faramir’s ear.

Faramir only responds with a soft, snuffling sound, pretending he’s already asleep. Boromir always makes it sound so easy to say, that it makes Faramir wonder why he’s holding back. Why he hasn’t said the words aloud since he realized he wanted Boromir in every way. In every capacity there was _to_ want.

He wishes he could say it the way Boromir does, affectionate and all-encompassing, because each time Boromir whispers the words, Faramir hears, _I love you, brother, lover, other half of my soul._

He’s debating saying it for so long that he nearly falls asleep, but when Boromir nuzzles into his neck, his jaw rough but warm, Faramir thinks very hard at Boromir, _I love you too._

~

The bed is empty when Faramir wakes up.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bed is empty when Faramir wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for the flower shop and the floor above it drawn from Natsuyuki Rendezvous, seen **[here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/NRscreen1.jpg~original)** and **[here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/NRscreen2.jpg~original)**. Title from Alan Jackson's _That's What I'd Be Like Without You_.

~

He can’t deny it leaves him feeling a little disgruntled and annoyed; one of his favorite things is to find that they’ve somehow shifted during the night. That Boromir’s become the little spoon in their cuddling, so Faramir can press small, skittering kisses along the nape of his neck. Can trail his fingers along the side of Boromir’s arm, to trace the scar where a nail gun backfired and nicked him in the shoulder a year ago.

Faramir still remembers it as one of the few times he’d fought with Boromir about something; he’d wanted Boromir to quit the building business, to find a profession where he’d be safe, away from the dangers of slipping off roofs and being hurt by nail guns. 

_What if the nail had gone a few inches left?_ Faramir had argued. _What if, instead of your shoulder, it had been your heart?_

Boromir had simply pulled Faramir to him, settling his arms about Faramir’s waist. _I can’t quit. We need the money._

Money that they have now, Faramir supposes. He spares a moment to be glad that his brother can work with him in the flower shop now, where the biggest danger is a paper cut from filing bouquet orders. Or pricking a finger on a flower thorn. Faramir sighs and turns over in the bed, throwing the blanket over his head to simulate the last dregs of nighttime, in spite of the glaring sun. Spies as he does so, a note. 

It’s written on a piece of white cardstock, one that’s folded in half and perched on his night table.

_Thought I’d give you some time to recover after last night. Went down to open the shop for you. :) – B_

The note sits on top of a covered tray, which Faramir finds contains a plate of scrambled eggs, and bacon, chewy, just the way he likes it. Faramir laughs, what little annoyance there was dissipating, though he still wishes he woke at the same time as Boromir so they could cook breakfast together. 

He’s never told Boromir, but he loves to wind his arms around Boromir’s waist from behind while he’s cooking. To hook his chin over his brother’s shoulder and watch him work his culinary magic. 

After making his way through quick mouthfuls of the breakfast Boromir’s left him, Faramir pads downstairs in his bare feet, clad in nothing more than Boromir’s red plaid shirt—a little loose on him—and a pair of soft flannel pants.

Through the side window of the shop, he spots Boromir looking pleased as punch, and a customer, a man with dark shoulder-length hair, walking away with a large wrapped parcel in his hands. 

_That’s odd_ , Faramir thinks. _We don’t have anything that big for sale, do we?_

And even though he recognizes the man, knows he comes in on occasion for flowers for his pale, waifish girlfriend, he doesn’t like the way Boromir was smiling at him. It’s the expression Boromir reserves for _him_ , that bright, guileless curve of lips. 

When Boromir turns to him through the window and tips him that exact expression, the knowing grin Faramir wants to hoard for his own, he realizes Boromir’s wearing _his_ shirt beneath his apron. That it’s a little tight on him, so he’s left the top couple buttons undone. 

The sight of it stirs a new wave of desire in Faramir, and he swallows, hard. Licks his lips, before he realizes what he’s doing.

“You’re up early,” Boromir grins, when Faramir pushes the door to the shop open. He shifts a bucket of petal clippings to the side as he comes out from behind the counter. Hums, appreciative, as he plucks at his shirt on Faramir. “I didn’t expect you for another hour or so.”

Faramir throws a mock scowl at him, but has to bat his hand away when Boromir makes to slip it around his waist. “There’s a customer coming,” he whispers. When it turns out they’re only passing by the shop, Faramir reaches out to flip the shop sign to CLOSED. Sidles up against Boromir, like a pampered feline. “Let’s pretend it’s still your birthday,” he murmurs into Boromir’s ear. “And take the day off.”

“Oh?” Boromir chuckles. “What do you want to do instead?” He takes in Faramir’s flushed expression, the way he’s fidgeting at the sleeves of Boromir’s shirt that he’s wearing, and laughs. “Oh my god, you are _insatiable_ ,” he says, slipping his arm around Faramir’s waist, this time successfully. Lets his fingers wander over the jut of Faramir’s hip and squeeze, playful. 

“Wait, _wait_ , I have something to show you first,” Faramir says, reaching for the cooler display. He’d forgotten his arrangement in the heat of the moment last night, and because the timing’s right, it can even double as a thank-you for that breakfast Boromir made for him. He nudges several rose vases aside and digs around in the back, but it’s—

It’s gone. 

Faramir stands there, disbelieving.

“Faramir, what is it? What’s wrong?” Boromir asks, coming to stand behind him. Circles his shoulders with an arm, worried. 

“There’s—there was an arrangement here,” Faramir tries, his throat tight. “I was going to—it was supposed to be—”

“Oh,” says Boromir, sheepish. “That guy that was just here? He bought it. I didn’t know how much it was, so I just priced it with the thing closest to it.” 

“You _what_ ,” says Faramir. He feels something like hysteria rising in him, because _no_ , Boromir did _not_ just sell the arrangement he’s been working on for weeks. 

“It was a big sale, too!” Boromir adds quickly, an attempt to reassure. “So if you want, we can go out tonight for—” He stops, taking in Faramir’s stricken expression. “I’m sorry. Faramir, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were—were you saving it for someone? Was it the pricing?”

“It was _priceless_ ,” Faramir snaps. He shakes Boromir’s arm off his shoulder and pushes out the door. Sprints up the stairs, each grip of the banister a tight, awful clench, like the vise around his heart, and throws himself on their bed, where he lets out an ugly sob into the pillow. 

He’d put his heart and soul into that arrangement, and Boromir had thoughtlessly sold it.

Faramir had specifically grown and arranged stalks of salvia flowers to say _I’m thinking of you_. The cluster of primroses for _I can’t live without you_. And the red roses, artfully assembled in the middle, for _I love you_ , an overt gesture just for Boromir. 

And now Boromir would never know. 

_It doesn’t matter_ , Faramir decides, sullen. _He’d never appreciate it anyway_.

It’s not long before he hears footsteps on the stairs. The creak of the door to their room. 

“I’m sorry,” Boromir whispers. He settles behind Faramir on the bed, on top of the blankets. Tries to curl behind him. “Faramir, please. Whatever I’ve done, I—”

“Get out,” Faramir croaks. “ _Out_.”

“This is my bed too,” Boromir tries to joke, but there’s something hurt in his voice, and it hurts Faramir too, that he’s put that emotion there. But it’s not fair, because it doesn’t come close to how much Boromir’s hurt _him_.

“I hate you,” Faramir whispers. He doesn’t mean it, but it feels inexplicably good to say the words. And when he rolls crabbily into the blanket, bunching it around himself until he’s curled into a petulant lump, Faramir says with more conviction, “I _hate you_.”

He half expects Boromir to bully his way onto the bed and throw his weight on top of Faramir until they’ve made up, until they’ve talked it over, like they did when they were kids. A habit that’s carried over even until now.

So it hurts that much more when Boromir just leaves without a word, and closes the door, gentle, behind him.

~

When Faramir decides that he’s had enough of lying about in bed like a petulant lump—because he’s heard about how communication is key in any relationship—he slips downstairs to see if he can talk to Boromir. Like a reasonable person.

Boromir’s reopened the store though, and is busy helping a cluster of teenage girls, so Faramir makes his way to the greenhouse out back. Occupies himself with pruning dead leaves from the sweet pea plants. Absently rearranges the ceramic planters they’re supposed to put on display, once the spring-green and lilac Mother’s Day vases are sold.

From the greenhouse, he watches Boromir sell long-stemmed roses to the girls, coupled with bowls of bamboo clusters for luck. Watches the girls flock around him, fawning.

It’s times like these he remembers how good Boromir is at being the front face of the shop; people seem to come in just for a browse and a chat, and end up leaving with bags and wrapped parcels in their hands, whether it’s single flowers, bouquets, or even one of Faramir’s full-sized arrangements. 

If Faramir knows flowers, then Boromir knows people, and it’s a wonder how they managed to scrape by in the time before Boromir worked at the shop.

One of the girls, tall, freckled and blonde, bats her eyelashes at Boromir now, and Faramir rolls his own eyes. Resists the urge to gag. Something about it—maybe the action, maybe the girl—bothers him, even when he knows it shouldn’t. Riles the part of him that believes Boromir is _his_ ; his brother, his lover, just… _his_. And it’s funny how that one word’s come to mean everything. 

He doesn’t like the way that the ogling gaggle of girls, with their too-thick makeup and their mothers’ high-heels, tries to flirt with Boromir. The way Boromir pretends to flirt back in return. So when his brother calls him over, having to fill more orders from their supply of roses out back, Faramir grudgingly steps up to the counter. Suffers their too-loud giggles and clumsy seductions with a frosty smile. 

Somehow Faramir’s irritation spurs him into believing that he can flirt too; that he’s just as good as Boromir is at this. In fact, anything Boromir can do, Faramir can do better. Like flirting. Talking with customers. And _not_ stupidly selling off flower arrangements without price tags hidden behind rows of vases. 

It’s childish at best, but he’s feeling oddly vindictive.

Faramir spies the girl with waist-length blonde hair, the one that visits once every two weeks, buying white lilies each time, though lately she’s taken to buying an assortment of orchids and marigolds as well. _Excellent_ —his first test subject.

“Just the marigolds for you today, then?” he says, nodding, when she comes to the till. This is a good start.

“Why, do you have something else to recommend?” 

“Uh.” Already he can tell his flirting technique is far clumsier than Boromir’s. “Our—” Faramir casts his eyes about for something, anything, and spots some of the girls from earlier, leaving with their single, long-stem roses. “—long-stem roses are very popular right now. Do you have someone you’d like me to wrap a rose up for?”

“There’s no one I…” She gives Faramir a sidelong glance, before laughing. “Is this your way of asking me out for dinner? Because I wouldn’t say no.” 

Oh. She’s got an unbelievably no-nonsense approach, and admittedly, her bluntness is refreshing. None of the coy looks and shy, eyelash-fluttering glances. 

Faramir feels his face flush; he’ll feel terrible if he turns her down now. “Yeah. That’s what I was asking.” He’s digging himself deeper and he knows it, but there’s no one to bail him out. Maybe he’ll just see it through and—

“Oh, but I thought you and your boss were, you know. A thing.”

“My _boss_?” Faramir laughs. He chances a glance back at Boromir, who’s humming as he rifles through their back displays and clinking vases together audibly as he goes. The phrase _bull in a china shop_ comes to mind, and a tickle of affection rises in Faramir’s chest at how endearing that is, before he quashes the thought. “No,” says Faramir. “We’re not…” There’s never been an agreement that they’ll be exclusive to each other. Just because they’re brothers, that they live together, that they fu— 

Faramir’s face heats up further at the thought, before he cringes inwardly; it’s true they’ve never agreed aloud to be faithful to each other, but there’s an unspoken promise there that Faramir’s taken for granted until now. 

It’s that same promise that tells him this petty revenge against Boromir will backfire on him. That it’ll only end up hurting them both. 

“We’re not together,” he finishes lamely. It strikes him then how much easier it is to lie, than to tell the truths that need telling. Truths like _I love you_ and _I’m angry at you but I forgive you._

The girl laughs, the sound of it clear, like hand bells, and not the deep, throaty laugh Faramir’s used to. Her eyes are bright and sharp, like fine-cut sapphires, her hair like spun gold; nothing like the soft, honey-blond of Boromir’s, the dark sea-blue of his eyes with its fathomless depths.

“People usually ask for a name first, before a date,” she says, snapping him from his wandering thoughts.

“Oh,” Faramir says stupidly. “I thought…right, yes. What _is_ your name?”

“It’s Éowyn,” she smiles. He notices Éowyn doesn’t ask his name, until he realizes it’s only emblazoned across the nametag pinned to his apron, something he hasn’t had time to make for Boromir yet. “You don’t do this much, do you?” she says kindly. “This dating thing?”

“No,” Faramir admits. Things have always been so easy with Boromir; Boromir leads and he follows, and he’s never questioned the way things have gone until now. “And it doesn’t have to be a date,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Just—just dinner.” 

“Uh huh,” Éowyn says, uncapping the marker they use for writing appointments and taking down messages for cards and arrangements. She pens a number on his wrist, the digits scrawled wide and loopy on his skin. “I’m free at six tonight,” she says, with an odd half-smile. 

“Great,” says Faramir, trying to sound enthusiastic, but he’s already racking his brain for a way to let her down easy later. “I’ll, um. I’ll call you.”

When Boromir comes back out with the roses he went to get, he says, “Everything okay out here?”

“Yeah.” Faramir swallows. If Boromir finds out he accidentally scored a date he wasn’t expecting, he’ll never live it down. Besides, it’ll probably be good for Faramir to get out of the shop for a bit. To clear his head. “Just fine.”

“Fine,” Boromir echoes, nodding. His eyes stray to the door of the shop, where Éowyn’s still making her way across the street, but he doesn’t say anything after that.

~

“I need the truck,” Faramir lies, later. “To make some deliveries.” He’s loaded the backseat of the old Chevy with a few bouquets that he’s going to pretend to deliver.

“Deliveries.” Boromir raises a brow. “Right. That’d be a good idea, except we’ve never offered that service before.” He half-crowds Faramir into the wall, boxing him in with an arm. “Look, Faramir, can we just. Can we talk about—”

“I’m going now,” Faramir says, too loud and unnatural, and he ducks beneath Boromir’s arm, pushing through the door of the shop before Boromir can get another word in. 

He drives aimlessly for the better part of an hour, just thinking and brooding about how best to talk things over with Boromir—he can’t avoid his brother indefinitely—before picking Éowyn up at six from her cousin’s. It’s a little flat in the city that she stays at when she’s in town, within walking distance of the flower shop. 

Faramir decides to take her to an Italian place five blocks down from the shop, called Pacino’s or Pacina’s, an authentic-sounding name he can never remember, that does an equally authentic linguine and baked seafood lasagna to die for. He’s tried taking Boromir to this place on numerous occasions, but Boromir’s never liked it. 

_Real food is thick layers of pasta with meat. Not tiny bowls of tossed spaghetti with miniature meatballs that cost a fortune_ , Boromir had said each time, folding his arms over his chest, like that was the end of it. And any of Faramir’s further attempts to inject ‘culture’ into Boromir’s routine had been met with his bullish stubbornness. 

Éowyn is the complete opposite, however, thumbing through each page of the menu repeatedly. “There are so many choices!” she exclaims. “I can’t choose just one.” The cluster of apple blossoms Faramir gave her when they met up sits to the side, their petals plump and pink, indicative of _a promise_. They complement her carnation-pink cardigan perfectly.

She finally settles for the gnocchi with Arrabbiata sauce, and Faramir orders a simple seafood linguine for himself. While they wait for their food, Éowyn leans forward, hands clasped together, intrigued.

“So?” she says, her eyes bright. “Your parents must be huge fans of the _Lord of the Rings_ series, to name you after the one of the characters. Do you have an older brother named Boromir, too?”

Faramir grins. “I _do_. And you? Do you have a brother named Éomer?” 

Éowyn cringes. “Yeah. And after him, any dreams of having a normal name went out the window. I might have been…I don’t know. An Elizabeth. Or an Ella.” She shrugs. 

“It could’ve been worse,” Faramir laughs in response. “You could’ve been named Elephant. Or Eggplant.”

That’s the ice broken in the work of a few seconds, and they end up moving on to other topics, like the flowers she buys when she’s in, white lilies, for her uncle who’s in the city hospital, ill; her brother, who runs the ranch their uncle used to own, just outside the city, breeding horses and arranging horse-riding lessons.

He starts to notice how often she talks about her brother, and the way her face brightens when she mentions how proud she is of him, of having mastered the goings-on of the ranch with just a little help from a few friends. Can’t help but wonder if she’s a little bit in love with her brother, the way Faramir is with his. Except in his case, it’s rather a lot, and all their conversation does is remind him of how much he misses Boromir, even in the span of the hours they haven’t talked. How he misses Boromir so much it _hurts_. 

And he likes this, the ambience, the food, Éowyn’s company, and she’s stunning and lovely, but her laugh is light and not the deep, genuine rumble of Boromir’s; her hand is small and pale when he dares to cover it with his, and not the broad, warm palms that Boromir will curl around his when he’s sure no one is looking.

“Faramir,” she says, suddenly.

Faramir startles and looks up. “Yeah?” he says, before he realizes how terribly impolite that seems, as if he hasn’t been paying attention. 

“You seem kind of distracted,” Éowyn says, with a smile that seems almost _knowing_. “Thinking about something else? Or,” she adds, “some _one_ else?” And either she’s that astute, or Faramir has just been that utterly obvious. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wander off,” Faramir says, embarrassed, resolving to pay more attention. 

They talk about the ranch Éomer runs, and Éowyn slips him a card, in case Faramir ever wants riding lessons, or knows anyone who does. Faramir’s convinced by now that she _is_ in love with her brother, and wonders if she hasn’t noticed it herself yet. Wonders if it’s reciprocated, though the way she talks about him, it seems like it is. 

It doesn’t take long before Faramir’s thoughts wander to Boromir again, and he wonders what Boromir’s doing. If he should order something extra to bring home, even if Boromir isn’t fond of this place’s tiny portions. Faramir hopes Boromir’s all right; he’s probably laughed off Faramir’s earlier _I hate you_ , the way he usually does with things that are meant to hurt him. Lets them roll like water off his back. 

Surely he hadn’t taken the words to heart.

Faramir feels a knot of guilt build at the base of his stomach at that thought; Boromir’s always bore the brunt of their father’s attacks, and taken what abuse was hurled Faramir’s way, whether from within the household or without. But this time it’s _Faramir_ who’s hurt him, because he was mad about the sold arrangement. And he knows now that it was a callous thing to do, to blame Boromir for doing something he didn’t know not to. To have flung _I hate you_ in his direction so easily, when _I love you_ should have come first and foremost but remains yet unsaid. To come out on this date, or whatever this is, leaving Boromir to worry, to make his own assumptions about what’s going on.

“—said you were going to tell me about your boss,” Éowyn says suddenly, and Faramir’s so glad for the diversion from his thoughts, that he jumps into his answer without thinking.

“I’ve known him my whole life,” says Faramir, before he realizes that’s too close to the truth, and switches tracks. He doesn’t correct Éowyn on her assumption that Boromir’s his boss; if anything, Boromir’s more a business partner—a partner in every sense of the word, in fact. But that’s too much information, and again, too close to the truth. “He’s—he’s still new to the flower business, though,” Faramir says instead. “Sometimes he puts the flowers away improperly. Sells the wrong flowers to people. One time I caught him selling crocuses to a customer asking for tulips.” 

Faramir chuckles, fond, at the memory, though he remembers the customer had been less than impressed. 

Éowyn hums, amused. “Must be frustrating having to work with him.”

“No, never,” Faramir says immediately. “Never that. He might still get things wrong, but he always…seems to know what people need. Knows what flowers will be best for whom, just from their explanation.”

“Hmm. That’s true,” says Éowyn. “He’s the one who suggested I buy something other than white lilies for my uncle. Said he needed something other than the color of hospital whites in his room, and suggested marigolds to brighten up the place. A potted orchid to give the room a splash of color.”

“Did he now?” Faramir grins, having almost said, _Boromir did that?_ It’s only further proof of how his brother might mix flowers up, but he knows just what people need. 

When they’ve nearly finished their dinner, Faramir flags down a waiter to order a pizza to take home. Requests extra cheese and Italian salami, sausage and bacon. Boromir might not like their pasta, but he can’t say no to a pizza loaded with extra toppings, even if it’s one of their “pretentious” thin-crust pizzas. 

“It’s for later,” Faramir lies, when Éowyn raises a brow. “In case I get hungry.”

Éowyn lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug and smiles. “Sure.”

Once the pizza arrives, safely packed away in a takeout box, they head back to Faramir’s truck. The atmosphere in the drive back to Éowyn’s cousin’s place is easy and effortless: he listens to her chatter about the new self-defense class she’s taking evenings at the local college; she giggles at more of Faramir’s amusing anecdotes about Boromir’s mishaps at the shop, and Faramir’s own occasional blunders.

When he falls silent before sharing Boromir’s latest mishap, Éowyn nudges him in the ribs. “All right, something’s eating at you. What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” says Faramir. “It’s just, I’ve wanted to work with my boss for ever. And now that we are, it’s great. Even if he makes mistakes, they’re just little things. Things I can easily overlook, or fix, or teach him the right ways about. But recently, he sold this arrangement I’d been working on for ages.”

“That’s good though, isn’t it?” Éowyn quips. “More money for the shop?”

Faramir huffs, impatient. “It _would_ be good, except I was saving it. You know, for a special occasion.” He’s careful to leave the words _special someone_ aside. “And because of that, I…I said things to him that I shouldn’t have.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Terrible things.”

“In all fairness,” Éowyn frowns, “you didn’t tell him _not_ to sell it, right? And you didn’t put a big RESERVED sign on it or anything, I’m guessing. Besides, maybe he was just thinking of the shop when he sold it.” She pauses. “Thinking of _you_ ,” she dares. 

“I guess,” Faramir says absently. Boromir _had_ seemed unusually thrilled. Had even suggested that they go out, after the sale. “When you put it like that, it seems like a pretty stupid thing to be mad about.”

Éowyn settles back in her seat. “Well, no,” she says. “The arrangement was important to you. But it sounds like your boss’s opinion of you matters more than the arrangement. Or you wouldn’t feel this guilty about the things you said to him.” She shrugs. “Just saying.”

“Right,” says Faramir. “You’re right.” It’s something he mulls over for the rest of the drive, and even when they move on to another topic, he’s grateful for her amazingly sharp insight on the matter.

“So,” Éowyn says slowly, when they arrive at the apartment complex. “I really enjoyed dinner.” Her fingers fidget at her hair, the way she does when she’s about to impart an awkward truth, as Faramir’s noticed. She pauses for all of three seconds, before adding, “But I think we’re better off just being friends.” 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Faramir breathes out, before he realizes he’s said it aloud. 

Éowyn socks him in the shoulder. “Okay, I knew you were thinking the same thing, but it doesn’t mean you should say it out _loud_. Not in front of a lady.” She wrinkles her nose, and Faramir laughs.

“I did have a good time, though,” Faramir says, honest. “So, thanks.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. After a moment’s deliberation, she says, “I still think you should make up with your other half.” 

“I don’t…” Faramir begins stubbornly, but Éowyn just snorts. 

“Do us both a favor and _admit_ it,” she says. “You’ve only been thinking about him—what, the entire time? If it was a fight, make up with him. And if it’s distance, close it. So that next time maybe we can actually have a real conversation. You know, when you’re not so busy mooning over him, in your lovey-dovey haze.” Éowyn pauses. “ _Is_ it love?” she asks, soft.

Faramir feels his mouth go dry. No one’s ever asked him this, point-blank. “No. I mean, I don’t—I don’t know.” He wets his lips with his tongue. “Maybe.” Except it’s a lie, because he _does_ know. 

He’s always known. 

He knows it from the way Boromir pads downstairs in his soft flannel pants early in the morning, sweeping up petal clippings Faramir trails on the floor, when he gets carried away making arrangements. The honest, heartfelt way he suggests Faramir’s bouquets or arrangements to clients, somehow knowing what they need, whether it’s for forgotten anniversaries, sympathies, new lives, or _just-thinking-of-you_ ’s—even if he can’t name every flower in them. The sweet, clumsy manner in which Boromir makes Faramir stay in bed a little longer, by pretending to be asleep while he wraps his arms about Faramir like an octopus. 

All the little things, little habits and nuances of Boromir’s that make Faramir helpless to do anything _but_ love him.

What he and Boromir have is many things, but love has always been the root of it, no matter what forms it’s blossomed into over the years. 

“Yes,” Faramir whispers finally, hoarse. “ _Yes_.”

Éowyn’s smile is kind, even as her eyes shine with a spark of mischief. “Then don’t tell me,” she says. “Tell _him_.” When Faramir bristles slightly, she laughs as if she’s just uncovered the secrets of the universe. He only notices then how subtly she’s slipped the pronoun ‘him’ into their conversation and he didn’t even think to correct her. “It _is_ your boss, isn’t it? Though I could’ve sworn you said he was your brother, at one point.” She pauses, thoughtful. “Unless he’s both.”

Faramir goes very, very still; he doesn’t remember having shared that. Maybe it was the atmosphere, the company, that had loosened his tongue. He makes a side note never to mix alcohol with unproven company ever again.

Éowyn blinks. “C’mon, ‘I’ve known him my whole life’? ‘I’ve wanted to work with him forever’?” She sighs. “Look, your secret is safe with me,” Éowyn says, patting the hand he’s rested on the stick shift. “I, too, with my brother…” She laughs a little too self-consciously for it to be a joke. “I thought, with you, we might—but it doesn’t look like it’ll work. For either of us.”

“Oh,” says Faramir. _Oh_. With that, she’s confirmed what he suspected all along. And now that they know each other’s secret, he’s glad too, that her love is reciprocated; he doesn’t know what he’d do if Boromir didn’t feel the same way. The thought of that reminds him of how Boromir took care to assure him his love was returned, early on. Never left him to doubt or worry, or pine fruitlessly for years.

“I’ll see you around,” Éowyn says finally, and she kisses him on the cheek, chaste and cool. From that, Faramir knows it’s over, this thing between them, before it’s even begun. He’s glad he’s found a friend at least, even if this isn’t what he envisioned for the night—that he’d pour his heart out to someone he’s only talked to in passing.

As an afterthought, Faramir says, “I’m sorry. For…” He gestures between them. “For all this.” At least now that they know the truth about each other, they can start anew as friends.

Éowyn laughs, even if it is a little sad. “So am I,” she says. “Who knows, maybe in another world we might’ve made it.”

Faramir nods. “Another time.”

And as far as pseudo-dates go, this wasn’t half bad, but when Faramir pulls away from the curb, he hightails it on home, because now that he feels lighter, happier, he’s got something to say. Something he thinks he’s finally worked up the courage to put into words, instead of trying to say it with furtively left flowers with breakfasts, misinterpreted, and misused arrangements. 

Boromir’s never left Faramir wondering about his affections, and Faramir can only hope it’s not too late to do the same.

~

By the time Faramir returns to the shop, most of the street is dark, lit only by the wan glow of streetlamps. It’s a sharp contrast to the lights still on in the shop, too bright and fluorescent-white against the backdrop of the street.

He finds Boromir dragging a dustpan and hand-broom along the floor, sweeping up stray petals and spots of spilled earth. It still takes some getting used to, watching Boromir putter around in his forest-green apron, instead of his plaid shirt and jeans, the informal uniform of his previous trade. Faramir likes it best when they wear the aprons together, like their mother and father did. As if they’re a matching set, with their embroidered sunflowers and stars, like those couples with identical jackets and sweaters. 

He’s still working up the courage to ask Boromir to wear it with nothing else on underneath.

“What are you still doing up?” Faramir asks, setting aside thoughts of Boromir naked in the apron for now. “We never stay open this late.”

Boromir shrugs. “I was waiting for you.” He pitches what rubbish he’s managed to sweep up into the bin on the side, and straightens up, before turning to tidy the front counter. It’s starting to look suspiciously like busywork, as if Boromir’s not sure how to approach him anymore. As if he’s waiting for Faramir to make the first move this time.

“You didn’t have to,” Faramir says. When Boromir does another awkward half-lift of his shoulder, Faramir holds up the carryout bag from the restaurant. “I got you pizza.” He shakes the bag a little, hearing a satisfying rattle from within. “Extra meat and cheese, the way you like it.” He holds it out like a peace offering. Advances toward Boromir little by little, as he would a skittish animal.

“Pizza,” Boromir nods, standing stock-still. “Right. Yeah. How was dinner?” he asks tonelessly. 

It’s strange, this, because their conversations have never been this stilted before. Usually when one of them returns, the other will be waiting so they can immediately hug, and if no one’s around, they’ll kiss, and Boromir’s mouth will be warm and soft and lovely against his. And if they haven’t been swept up in their passions—Faramir still remembers the time Boromir took him on the back table, and Faramir accidentally swept a twelfth of their inventory to the ground while his mind was completely blanked out—they’ll talk about their day, the customers. Maybe the odd bit of gossip that’ll affect their business, like who’s getting married and who’s planning to have kids.

“Dinner?” Faramir pauses, caught in his lie. Clearly that excuse about making bouquet deliveries didn’t fly. “It was all right.” The _tick tick tick_ of the clock behind them fills the silence, the dead air between them.

“Is she nice? Everything you hoped for?”

Faramir looks up sharply. “She?”

Boromir rolls his eyes. “Please, you smell like _eau de chocolat_ , what else am I supposed to think? Plus I saw her giving you her number.”

“Boromir.” Faramir sets the bag down on the counter. He’s noticed the tight set of Boromir’s jaw, the squaring of his shoulders, like he’s trying to stand strong against something. “It isn’t what you think—”

“Hey, no,” Boromir says, slapping him on the back, too clumsy and awkward both. “I’m just glad you’ve found someone.” His voice breaks on _someone_ and Faramir can see the apple of his throat move too prominently. The way Boromir is swallowing, hard. 

“Boromir, that’s not—” he tries, but Boromir only pats him harder, like Faramir’s a baby that’s choking and needs a sharp slap between the shoulder blades.

“No, I get it. I do,” he says with this insincere smile, ugly in all its falseness, and Faramir feels something crumple in his chest, tight, from the emotion he sees in his brother’s face. Of hurt, betrayal and everything else in between. “You’ll be with someone who can give you a proper life,” Boromir nods. “Picket fence, dog, kids and all that.” He smiles, wider, unaware of the tear that’s escaped, a mutinous thing that rolls down his cheek into the chiseled line of his jaw. “Two point five kids; pretty sure that’s the average.”

And this—this quiet acceptance—isn’t what Faramir expected. He’d expected Boromir to be angry, to be livid and spiteful, to be—

He doesn’t know _what_ he expected. 

Because Boromir’s never thrown him against a wall, to breathe _You’re mine, and no one else’s_ , never forcefully laid his claim where Faramir didn’t want it, but he’s said _I’m yours_ , in everything he does: from the way he’s given everything to support Faramir’s dream, like his time and money, right down to the little things, like bringing packets of rare seeds home, and flowers to brighten Faramir’s day.

Boromir’s always been the type to take what he wanted, to _fight_ for what he wanted—in everything but this.

 _He thinks I’ll leave him_ , Faramir realizes, his heart twisting in his chest. _He thinks he no longer has a place in my life_. And the thing that breaks his heart most is that he can see Boromir really will let him go, if this is what Faramir wants. As if Faramir’s happiness matters more than his own. 

He reaches for his brother then, clasps Boromir’s face in his palms. “Stop it,” Faramir says. “Stop it right _now_. That is not going to happen.”

The words seem to trigger something in Boromir, and instead of one tear, there are two, then twin rivulets streaming down his face, and Faramir feels something break inside him, because Boromir doesn’t do this; Boromir doesn’t cry. He’s always the strong one, always has been, but this time _Faramir’s_ the one who’s done this to him. The one who’s hurt him so utterly and deeply. 

“Boromir,” he says, trying to kiss the tears away as fast as they can fall. “Nothing happened at dinner. This life of mine you’ve imagined into being, with a woman? It won’t happen. That’s not what I want.”

“What _do_ you want, then?” Boromir says, trying to scowl, as though looking irritated will cancel out his sorrow. He manages to look like a scowling kitten, but Faramir suspects now’s not the right time to share that.

“You,” says Faramir, smoothing out the furrow in Boromir’s brow with his thumb. “I want _you_.” 

And even _that’s_ inadequate, because what he means is _I want you, and the life we have, and the home we share above this little shop. I want our creaky bed and sleepy kisses in the morning and your breakfasts of scrambled eggs and half-cooked bacon. I want to spend days in the sunlight with you, in our shop, or anywhere, as long as we’re together. I want the way you curl around me at night, like you’re my shield, my protector, my lionheart, and I want it all forever, if only you want it too_ but he can’t get his mouth to work, can’t say what Boromir needs to hear, to tell him what’s in his heart.

Boromir laughs, bitter, and pushes him away. “You say that now, but who’s to say you won’t change your mind later? Maybe you’ll get married, and bring your wife and kids to live with us upstairs.” He sucks in a breath of realization. “Oh. But there won’t _be_ an ‘us’ by then, will there? That’s it—I’ll just have to go.”

At the mention of _upstairs_ , Faramir thinks of the home Boromir’s built for him above the shop. Of the way he’d said _It’s ours_ , like it was their new beginning, like they were a new couple and it was their starting homestead.

Then he remembers Boromir’s earnest _Will you have me?_

It’s the moment he realizes, the moment he berates himself for being such a fool. That Boromir wasn’t asking _Will you have me_ for right now, wasn’t asking for the next day, the next year; he was asking _Will you have me, for good or ill, in sickness or in health, for all the days of our lives?_ But he can’t ask the way everyone else does, with ring and bended knee, so he asks with a flat above the flower shop, and breakfasts in bed, and little favors like opening the shop in the mornings so Faramir can sleep in.

The thought of that stuns Faramir where he stands, and all he can breathe is, “Oh, _Boromir_.” Draws his brother forward, to kiss him again and again, pressing lips to his brow and cheeks and lips. “Forgive me, I didn’t see—I didn’t know—”

But for all that, he can still see Boromir doesn’t believe him: there’s doubt and fear in his eyes, like he thinks Faramir will give him up, even after all they’ve been through together. Will trade him for a wife and kids and a picket fence, for the chance to be _normal_ and _average_ and all the things Faramir _should_ want, but never has. So he says the words he’s been holding back all this time, for nothing, when he should have said them all along; the words that would have given Boromir the reassurance that he is wanted, he is treasured, he is precious.

“I _love you_ ,” he says, pressing his face into Boromir’s neck and looping his arms around Boromir’s waist, tight. “I love you, and don’t you forget it, because it’s you, it’s only ever been you, and I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I was mad, because I’d been working on that arrangement for you for weeks, for your birthday, and it’s gone, but it doesn’t matter, because I have you and the flowers don’t matter, just, please, Boromir, please, don’t go because I can’t bear to be without you, don’t go somewhere I can’t follow—”

“Slow down, slow _down_ ,” Boromir says, drawing back and tipping Faramir’s chin up. “Didn’t I say I would never leave you behind? That I would never—”

Faramir’s voice nearly breaks at that. “You still remember. You promised. You _promised_ ,” is all he can say, useless. 

Boromir shakes his head, as if he’s caught something else in Faramir’s litany of words. “The arrangement—is that what this is all about? Oh, Faramir,” he says, folding Faramir into his arms. “I’m so sorry; you made it for _me_.” Boromir huffs a laugh, short, relieved. “I should’ve known. It was beautiful.” He slides his fingers into the base of Faramir’s neck, into his hair. “So beautiful. But not,” he murmurs into Faramir’s mouth, “as beautiful as _you_ are, when you walk in the sunlight, watering our flowers. When you hum to yourself as you arrange them to perfection, row upon row of effortless precision, and beauty, and color. When you sing to—”

“ _Enough_ ,” sputters Faramir, laughing. “If you tell anyone I sing to the plants, I’ll kill you myself.” But it touches something deep in his heart, that Boromir’s noticed these things. That he loves the little things about Faramir, too. “Idiots,” he laughs again, pressing his forehead against Boromir’s. “We’re both idiots.”

“I’m sorry,” Boromir whispers, again and again, into the shell of Faramir’s ear, the hollow of his throat, the curve of his lips. Makes promise after promise, to be more careful, to ask before selling things. “The arrangement you made for me, you must’ve worked so hard on that. Faramir, I’m so—”

Faramir loops his arms around Boromir’s neck, shushing him with a kiss, long and slow and deep. “I’ll be better at labeling things too,” Faramir promises. He breathes in, once, trying to work up the nerve to bring up his other request. “While we’re at it, could you …” _Stop flirting with our customers_ , he can’t say. _Even if it doesn’t mean anything._

There must be something in the way his face flushes, though, or the way his eyes dart away, and _damn it_ Faramir needs to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve, because Boromir draws him up for a softer, sweeter kiss. 

“Faramir,” he says, gentle. “What happens down at the flower shop—that’s just business. You know that, don’t you?” He nudges his nose against Faramir’s when Faramir doesn’t respond. “You know that I’m _yours_ , don’t you?”

“Mmhn,” Faramir mumbles, which is no answer at all. It’s a selfish request he’s making, and he knows it; whatever Boromir does, he does it for the shop. For _them_. Still, it doesn’t make it any easier to meet Boromir’s eyes.

Boromir presses more kisses, lingering and soft, to Faramir’s eyelids, as he cups Faramir’s cheeks in his hands. “I can see it bothers you, though,” he says. “So I’ll stop.” He wags a finger in Faramir’s face, teasing. “And in return, you won’t go around dating our customers?”

“It was only the one time,” Faramir says mulishly. “And I didn’t even mean to. I was just trying to be like you, when it happened—”

“Faramir,” Boromir says. He squeezes Faramir’s hip, reproachful. “ _Promise_.” There’s something darker in his voice and surer in his grip that sends a tremor of anticipation skittering down Faramir’s spine.

“All right, all _right_ , I promise,” Faramir laughs. It’s good, this, to know that Boromir’s regained his spark. That he won’t just roll over and accept it if Faramir’s somehow taken from him. That they’re being honest with each other and _communicating_.

They stand there together, silent, simply breathing each other’s air. Share their affections through wordless warmth, and soft, stroking touches, to hair and neck and hip. 

“Are we okay, then?” Faramir asks finally.

Boromir sucks in a soft breath. Kisses the tip of Faramir’s nose. “We’re…we’re okay.” Then, with a grin too wide to be anything innocent, he tugs Faramir to the door, toward their homey flat above. “And if you’d like, we can be _more_ than okay.”

“And you said _I_ was the insatiable one,” Faramir snorts, but he lets Boromir herd him upstairs into what he’s realized is, effectively, their very own love nest. The thought of that makes him laugh; makes him twine his hand into Boromir’s and kiss him hard, because Boromir’s anticipated his— _their_ needs just like he has those people in their shop, and for this, Faramir’s never been more grateful than now.

~

They manage to make it up the stairs, both wound into a breathless mess of rumpled shirts and half-unzipped jeans, and as soon as Boromir’s kicked the door closed behind them, he crowds Faramir backward. Kisses him hard, again and again, until he’s driven Faramir into their bedroom.

Faramir falls back onto their bed, the impact driving the air from his lungs, and Boromir lands on top of him, unsteady, his hands tangled in Faramir’s hair, lips pressing a fierce trail of kisses to mouth and jaw and throat. 

He’s forced to stop briefly, to undo the buttons that’ll expose Faramir’s chest, but the moment Boromir reaches skin, he returns with full fervor, mouthing hungrily at Faramir’s nipples. Sucks the pert nubs, eager, until they’ve reddened into blushing cherry peaks. Bites rose-red bruises into the line of Faramir’s sternum, belly, down past his navel, harder and far more in number than the one or two Boromir usually leaves.

And maybe it’s that Boromir’s never fought for him in this sense before, never staked his claim on Faramir like this, so much and so desperately, but it sparks something in Faramir—the way Boromir dares now to mark him, to bruise him, in a way that declares how much Faramir is _his_ in the way that he is _Faramir’s_ —and he surges forward, dragging Boromir into him for a kiss. Pushes him back against the bed, pressing Boromir’s shoulders down until he’s flush against the mattress, and straddles Boromir’s hips. 

“Let me, _too_ ,” Faramir hisses, because it’s not fair for Boromir to be the only one to mark his property. His territory.

With a nod, Boromir lies back. Cedes control to Faramir, though his hands don’t leave Faramir’s hips, still stroking, petting, greedy. 

Faramir doesn’t even bother with the buttons on Boromir’s shirt, just slips his hands beneath, inverting it as he goes, and pulls it over Boromir’s head. Lays his own path of bruises in the wake of his kisses, wine-dark marks that stipple the column of Boromir’s throat. The ridge of his collarbone. The curve of his shoulder. Faramir smirks as he draws back, darkly satisfied that any interloper will see them. Will know Boromir is _his_. 

Boromir seems to sense his intent, and presses fingers against the marks he’s made on Faramir in return. “Mine,” he whispers. The pads of his fingers brush against Faramir’s chest and trail lightly over his belly, before bearing down, hard. Like eagle’s talons, dark and possessive.

“Yours,” Faramir nods, relishing the dig of Boromir’s fingers into skin. He lays his own hand along the trail on Boromir’s pale skin. Sinks nails just the right amount of sharp into the junction between neck and shoulder. “Mine.”

Boromir hums, pleased. “Yours,” he agrees.

And with this mutual affirmation, Faramir returns to blazing a trail of hot, hungry kisses over Boromir’s chest and belly. Urges Boromir’s hips up and tugs his jeans off, to stroke Boromir’s cock, teasing, through the thin cotton of his boxers. Draws it out, slow, and touches his tongue to it, licking away the perfect pearl of precome that’s beaded at the tip. 

“Faramir, wait,” Boromir breathes. He reaches for Faramir, as if to reciprocate, because it’s usually an equal exchange between them, more or less, but Faramir presses him back to the bed firmly. 

“There’ll be time for that later,” he says. “Right now, this is all for _you_.” This is for Boromir’s pleasure only, to show him how much, how deeply Faramir feels for him. To reassure him of the depth of Faramir’s affection. 

He laves his tongue along the underside of Boromir’s cock, tracing a vein, teasing, as he licks a warm, wet stripe along the shaft. Swirls his tongue over the tip, relishing Boromir’s groan, the insistent wriggle of his hips, before taking all of Boromir into his mouth.

“ _Faramir_ ,” Boromir groans, mashing a hand into Faramir’s hair, his fingers tugging just the right amount of hard. It takes only another swipe of Faramir’s tongue at the slit before Boromir’s fingers tighten, nearly painful in his hair. “Wait,” he gasps, “not yet. I don’t—I want to, inside you, Faramir, please—”

Taking his meaning, Faramir slips his mouth off Boromir’s cock and shifts his way back into Boromir’s arms. “ _Yes_ ,” he whispers, his breath hot against Boromir’s ear, as he gives voice to his desires, the murmur of them low and wet and filthy. “Want you inside me.” 

He presses a close-mouthed kiss to Boromir’s lips, before kicking off his own jeans. Lets Boromir wrench his boxers from his hips, then grinds his half-hard cock against Boromir’s, already at full hardness. Dips his fingers into the precome that’s started pooling on Boromir’s belly, mixed with his own, and slicks Boromir’s cock with it. 

“Want you to come inside me,” Faramir whispers, fierce. He guides Boromir to his entrance, relishing the slow, satisfying slide as his brother fills him, stretches him, until he’s feeling too open, exposed, and raw. Until the sweet ache in his hips and ass more than he can bear. “Boromir,” he says, helpless, biting down on a whimper. “It’s too much, I can’t—”

He’s been too eager for this, thinking they could do without the lube, without fingers to ease the way first. _Damn it_.

Boromir rubs Faramir’s back, gentle, warming him. Lets his fingers trace small, relaxing circles into each knob of Faramir’s spine. “It’s okay,” he says. “Take your time.” He soothes a hand over the line of Faramir’s hip as he presses soft, fluttering kisses to Faramir’s eyelids, his lips. Lets Faramir lie unmoving in his arms, to catch his breath, allowing him the time he needs to rest, to let his body adjust before they start to move.

When he’s grown used to having Boromir inside him, Faramir sits up cautiously, to rock his hips a little. Braces his hands on the bed frame to get more leverage, until he decides it’s not enough skin, not enough contact, and sets them on Boromir’s chest instead, his shoulders. Claws his hands into Boromir’s body as he rides his brother, slowly at first, then harder, until he’s bucking against Boromir’s hips like a bronco at a rodeo.

“Whoa there,” says Boromir, laughing, his hands coming up to cover Faramir’s, as if to gentle an untamed horse. “Whoa.”

Faramir tears his hands free of Boromir’s, twining their fingers together instead, their clasped hands leverage for Faramir as he bounces in Boromir’s lap. His fingers tighten almost cruelly on Boromir’s, the grip vice-like, but Boromir lets him have this, lets Faramir have control where and when he needs it the most. “ _Yes_ ,” Faramir manages, between soft gasps. “Yes, good.”

“Then ride me,” Boromir encourages. “ _Ride me_.” He loosens a hand and wraps it around Faramir’s prick, angry and red and slick, encouraging the buck of Faramir’s hips against his. Cuts a breathy cry from Faramir short by slipping fingers into his mouth, pushing them past his tongue and deep into his throat, in time with his thrusts, a mirror of what his cock is doing below.

And when Faramir starts trembling, gasping, “Boromir—so close—almost there—”, Boromir knocks Faramir’s arms out from under him, pulling him down for a kiss, hot and wet and hungry. Winds hands into Faramir’s hair to deepen it, until his tongue feels like it’s halfway down Faramir’s throat, before slinging hands low on Faramir’s waist, fingers pressing into his hips, hard. Flattens his palm over where his cock presses into Faramir, pushes Faramir down, forcing him down further onto his cock as he shoves upward, and buries himself to the hilt, hitting deeper and harder than ever with each thrust, until Faramir has to curl arms under Boromir’s shoulders, tight, and sink teeth into Boromir’s neck to muffle his howls. 

It takes only one more hard, unforgiving dig at his prostate before Faramir cries out, nearly sobbing as he comes, because it’s never been _so good_ , and he spills over Boromir’s stomach, collapsing into a limp pile while Boromir thrusts into him once more, twice, and spills inside him, warm and liquid and wet.

Faramir clenches tight around him, wanting Boromir in him. Wanting _all_ of him. Coaxes each drop of his brother’s essence from him with a greedy, gliding slide that has Boromir gritting teeth and digging fingers into Faramir’s hips, hard.

When their breaths have evened out, Boromir strokes a hand slowly through Faramir’s hair. Traces the curve of Faramir’s shoulder to the crook of his elbow, before skittering to the line of his hip, with fingertips feather-light and fond. 

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a bath,” Boromir says. He presses tiny, nibbling kisses to Faramir’s nose. The corners of his mouth. Tugs just the slightest bit with teeth, when he gets to the fullest part of Faramir’s lower lip. As if he’d start _there_ , if Faramir was a dessert and Boromir could eat him up.

Faramir concedes the point about the bath; they’re both sticky and soaked with sweat, and there’s also the potential for bath sex, which he decides comes third only after birthday sex and makeup sex. “Okay,” he mumbles into Boromir’s neck. “Bath.”

With a weary grunt, Boromir nudges at him to _get up_ but Faramir only burrows deeper into his arms like a spoiled cat. “Carry me,” says Faramir. In the same imperious way he used to toddle toward Boromir and demand _Up!_ with his stubby arms outstretched for a piggyback ride. 

Boromir laughs, and after some careful maneuvering, carries him to the bathroom, his forearms hitched under Faramir’s knees. Faramir loops arms around Boromir’s neck, clinging to him like a limpet as they share lazy, open-mouthed kisses, Boromir’s cock buried deep inside him all the while. He chuckles when Boromir hitches him higher, trying to reach around him to turn the tub faucet.

“I can’t draw up the bath like this,” Boromir says after a moment. He kisses the tip of Faramir’s nose in apology.

Faramir grumbles, but lets Boromir slip out. Sits inside the tub, knees drawn to his chest as Boromir lets the water run, then scuttles over to make room for him. Squeezes a dewdrop’s worth of soap into a bath sponge, lathering it up and sweeping long, steady strokes along his own arms and Boromir’s. 

It isn’t long into their cleaning before Faramir sits astride Boromir again, nudging his rump into Boromir’s lap. Enjoys the way Boromir’s cock stirs at his touch, with an interested twitch, as it slides against the cleft of his ass. Kisses Boromir again and again, in encouragement and daring both.

“Okay,” says Boromir, giving in with a nod. “Okay.” He startles Faramir into a yelp by pinching his bottom in the water, playful. Suffers Faramir’s scowl and the reproachful swipe at his shoulders with a laugh, before bodily lifting Faramir up and pressing him down against his cock.

And when Faramir takes Boromir within him again, he giggles as he presses prune-fingers into the dip of Boromir’s belly to anchor himself. Relishes the sensation of their slow, easy lovemaking in the warmth of the soapy water, hoping he’ll never have to know life without being connected to Boromir somehow. 

When they finally make it back to the bed, when Boromir presses into Faramir’s back and noses the curls at the nape of his neck, to breathe words of affection, Faramir turns in his arms, to kiss first. To say the words first.

“I love you,” he says softly, touching his lips to Boromir’s. It’s not out of desperation or panic, and Boromir hasn’t guilted him into this; it’s the warmth and affection that fills his chest at the sight of Boromir, with his towel-dried hair spread out against the pillow. The softness of his fluffy, flyaway hair that Faramir smoothes a tuft of back behind his ear. “So _much_.”

Boromir’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, before he tightens his arms around Faramir’s waist. “I know,” he says. “I’ve always known.”

“But I—I haven’t always said,” Faramir mumbles, guilty. Cuddles closer into warm, damp skin.

“I knew anyway,” says Boromir. He settles his forehead against Faramir’s, his eyes slipping shut. 

It’s then that Faramir remembers the dinners he’d keep warm, waiting for Boromir to come home. The blankets he’d heap on Boromir when he fell asleep in the back room, exhausted. And most recently, the flowers he’s left with breakfasts, hoping Boromir would know their meaning, would realize what Faramir was trying to say. 

His heart does a funny flip-flop in his chest at that, a little _oh_ of realization—that even when he stopped saying the words, he didn’t stop showing it through his actions. That what they have isn’t always about grand, sweeping gestures, but a love built upon little things; little affections that grow into something bigger, and brighter, and somehow _more_.

“Oh,” he says out loud. “Boromir?”

“If you nudge me with either your hips or your butt and ask, ‘Again?’, I will _kick you_ ,” Boromir grumbles, his eyes fluttering open. “Now go to _sleep_.” 

Something in Faramir’s expression in the muted moonlight must give him away, though, because Boromir huffs a soft laugh and brushes their lips together. “Oh, Faramir,” he says, as if he’s just realized what Faramir’s hoping for. Smiles, fond, as if these are the words he’s wanted to say in return, for so long: “I love you too.”

~

By the time Faramir blinks awake the next day, the sun’s already passed its highest point in the sky, and the light filtering through the curtains has settled into the soft, muted golds of late afternoon.

He shifts in the bed, trying to snake a hand out to the clock on his night table, just to see how late he’s slept in. It’s then that he realizes he’s trapped; that the bars of his prison are formed by Boromir’s arms looped loosely around his waist. Faramir scrabbles fingers along the carpet beneath the bed, hoping for a shirt among the mess of jeans and socks and belts, but Boromir tugs him back into his arms, like he won’t let Faramir escape. Buries his face in Faramir’s neck and mumbles something inaudible, his breath a wisp of warm air that sends a delicious shiver down Faramir’s spine.

Faramir doesn’t mind the compulsory cuddle; he’d take having Boromir here beside him over an empty bed any day. In fact, if he had his way, he would never wake without Boromir. Would never be without him.

Just when he decides he’ll surrender to Boromir’s insistent embrace, Faramir spies a card perched on the edge of the clock. A covered vase beside the card, obscuring the clock’s digital display. He paws at the folded cardstock with the one hand that Boromir lets free, and pulls it in to read the handwritten note. 

_I’m thinking of you_ , it says. _I can’t live without you. And I love you too_. 

It’s unsigned, but the familiar half-fold of the card and the loose, easy scrawl of the words leaves no doubt as to whom they’re from, and a swell of affection blooms bright in Faramir’s chest.

He tips aside the paper covering the vase, surprised to find a clumsy but sweet recreation of the arrangement he was making for Boromir. The primroses and salvia are in the exact same positions—only, the centerpiece of red roses has been swapped out for a cluster of crimson ambrosias. For _returned love_.

 _Oh_ , Faramir realizes, and the fondness that’s welled up in his chest swells even higher, like a balloon fit to burst. He slides back under the blankets and nuzzles into Boromir’s warmth. Wonders where his brother found the information on flowers and their meanings, or when he’d found the time to put this arrangement together. 

When Boromir lets out a tiny, tired sigh, Faramir laughs softly, careful not to wake him; it’s more than likely Boromir woke early to fit the flowers together, then snuck back into bed.

Faramir closes his eyes again, trying to fall back asleep, but as much as he’d like to stay in bed, curled in Boromir’s arms, there’s an insistent gnaw of hunger in the pit of his stomach. He manages to ignore it for all of a few minutes, before he’s forced to muscle his way out of Boromir’s arms in search of food. 

Boromir makes a soft, hurt noise in his sleep, as soon as Faramir’s broken free. 

“I’ll be back,” Faramir whispers, guiltily. He kisses Boromir on the brow. Scoops up his brother’s red plaid shirt, Faramir’s favorite, from the floor and throws it on.

He’s halfway to the kitchen, when his hip clips the corner of Boromir’s desk, jostling a pile of order sheets and phoned-in requests. 

Faramir mutters a curse and rubs his sore hip. Starts straightening out the papers, ordering them by date, when he spots the faded spine of a little handbook. 

It’s half-hidden in the sea of papers on Boromir’s desk, but Faramir tugs the book out anyway. Touches fingers, light, to the cover. Finds that it’s a beginner’s guide to flowers and their meanings, called _The Language of Flowers_.

The book’s been dog-eared within an inch of its life, and Faramir thumbs his way through the bookmarked pages, chuckling at the mess of highlighting. Leafs through other pages marred with post-it notes written in Boromir’s hand, like: 

_Windflowers ≠ daisies_ **!!! IMPORTANT !!!**

 **Faramir’s favorite???** by a photo of some lovely purple water lilies. 

And _carnations ≠ roses [starburst pattern vs. concentric circles in petals]_ , something he’s been trying to get Boromir to remember for the longest time. 

Faramir sets the book down when he’s finished flipping through it, and piles some papers over it, like there had been before. Peeks in on Boromir, wanting to wake him up and pelt him with kisses—because Boromir’s been putting real effort into making the shop work, to share in Faramir’s dream—before thinking better of it, letting him sleep for just a while longer.

He pads downstairs to grab the pizza where they’d left it on the counter, and throws a few slices in the microwave. Eats one and brings in two slices, covered, to leave on Boromir’s night table, along with a freshly cut flower. Then he slips into bed again, cuddling into Boromir’s side, smiling to himself when Boromir’s arms close around him once more. He spends the next minute listening to the rhythm of Boromir’s breathing, slowing his own to match until they’re drawing the same breath. Watches the way Boromir's eyelashes fan against his cheeks with each breath, for another.

A whole hour passes this way until Faramir decides Boromir’s slept more than is good for him, and wakes him up with tiny feather-light kisses. Marks a trail from his brow to his cheeks, then another from his nose to his neck. 

Boromir wakes when Faramir has marked a path of kisses all the way to his shoulder. 

“What time is it?” Boromir yawns, his eyes still half-lidded with sleep. He trails fingers along the curve of Faramir’s backside, warm, before folding arms around Faramir’s waist again. Twines his legs, snug, over Faramir’s calves and nuzzles into Faramir’s neck. It’s a unique embrace that Faramir has secretly termed _The Starfish Cuddle_. 

One day, he’ll tell Boromir that of all the ways his brother likes to hold him, he enjoys this one the most, for the closeness and intimacy it allows them. For the safety he feels when Boromir’s draped around him like a cozy security blanket.

Today is not that day.

“Time for you to get up,” says Faramir, letting his arms settle around Boromir’s neck. “To eat something. And,” he adds, feeling a flush rise to the tips of his ears, “time to give us a kiss.”

Boromir hums and obliges, pressing small, closed-mouthed kisses to Faramir’s lips. 

Faramir tries to open his mouth against Boromir’s, urging him to slip his tongue in, and upon finding Boromir won’t, tries to nudge his way into Boromir’s. 

“Wait, _wait_ ,” mumbles Boromir, drawing away, though he keeps his arms tight around Faramir’s hips. “I need to wash up first before we do that. Morning breath, remember?”

“Nuh,” Faramir protests, tugging him back into the sheets. 

Boromir laughs. “At least let me brush my teeth.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and Faramir can see the moment Boromir finds the flower on the night table, sees the token of Faramir’s love, because he goes absolutely still.

“Boromir?” Faramir asks, worried. His nails blanch as he clutches the sheets, too tight. Maybe this is too overt, but he’s always trusted Boromir in this, has to believe that Boromir won’t see it as _too much_. 

Alternatively, Boromir might not even know what the flower means. At least there’s that. 

Faramir watches his brother twist the stem of the white flower, its petals imperfect, uneven, but beautiful all the same, in his fingers. Rolls it back and forth, thoughtful. Then he looks at Faramir, his smile warm and broad and real. “Forever, then?” he asks, hopeful.

Faramir grins back, pleased at how quickly Boromir’s grasped the meaning this time. “Forever,” he nods, a promise, as he touches their lips together and cups his hands around Boromir’s. 

Around the white rose known for _eternal love_.


End file.
